The Lion and the Fox
by Rayven49
Summary: Traces Edmund's change from a hurting innocent to a beastly little boy then to just king. England to Narnia and back. Peter and Edmund-centric. No slash/dark/violent. "Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast in his own personality, he should choose then the fox and the lion as his representations."-Machiavelli. Won 2012 Eustace Award best long fic in-progress!
1. Prologue: The Changing of the Times

**Hello everyone! This is my first time writing Narnia fanfiction. Though I've always loved the series, I worried I couldn't do it justice. But finally the plot bunnies struck and I found an idea I liked. I hope you enjoy! **

**For reference, I use the Narnia Wiki Timeline as my timeline for the Pevensies' ages, their years in Narnia, etc. **

**I also am deeply influenced by Tonzura123, Sentimental Star, TastyAsItGets, WillowDryad, and elecktrum, whose thoughtful and incredible portrayals of Peter and Edmund made me fall in love with C.S. Lewis's universe in a whole new way. If you feel like reading quality, look them up! **

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Prologue: The Changing of the Times **_

**Finchley, September 14****th****, 1939**

**Peter is 12 years old, Susan is 10 (nearly 11), Edmund is 8 (nearly 9), and Lucy is 7.**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Peter sits up in bed. He pushes back the curtains on his window and peers outside. He can make out the faintest trace of light to the east, blackening the trees. It is nearly dawn on The Day. He doesn't know when he decided to capitalize The Day. Perhaps when he first found out It was going to happen. He's been counting down the days since, and with each cross on the calendar, his world has fallen a little more apart.

Edmund lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. He has counted the cracks and water stains so many times that he knows them by heart (fifteen large cracks with twenty-six hairline ones branching off from them and three water stains.). He has counted Peter's breaths, the ticking of the clock, the intermittent gurgles of water in the pipes.

Though really, Edmund thinks, he should be counting down, not up. Whittling down the last hours until The Day. He knows exactly when It became The Day: when Dad told them he had been called up to fight, just three days after he'd enlisted.

Edmund closes his eyes. He remembers Lucy's look of confusion, Susan's soft gasp, and Peter's frantic barrage of questions. Mum's too-calm expression. She had known this would happen.

Edmund hadn't said much. Just asked one question: "When are you leaving?"

He had silenced the room. Peter had glared at him but Edmund ignored him. He repeated the query, keeping his voice steady. "When are you leaving, Dad?"

His father had smiled in a strained sort of way and answered quietly that he was taking the train on September 14th, and the children would come home from school to say goodbye. Edmund had felt rather far away for a while after that. When he had blinked back into the conversation, everything was different. The Day was the morning Dad was leaving. He hoped It never came.

Peter dresses in silence. He doesn't bother to turn on a light, but Edmund does. He comes to stand next to Peter and pulls on a clean shirt. Peter glances down at Edmund. He looks pale and sick. "You alright, Eddy?"

Edmund blinks. "I'm fine."

Peter smiles at him, decides to confide. "No, you're not. But it's alright. I'm not fine either."

Edmund stares up at him with wide eyes. "You're not?"

Peter shakes his head. "I'm really worried about what's going to happen when Dad leaves."

"And about what happens to Dad," Edmund mumbles, and Peter feels his chest constrict.

"That, too."

Edmund and Peter leave their room and slip down the hall to look in on the girls. Susan is doing up Lucy's buttons. She offers a low "Hullo," and a weak smile.

Edmund scuffs his feet, "'Lo." Abruptly he darts down the hall to Mum and Dad's room. He peers in. Dad looks up from the bed, tugging on the laces of his Army-issued boots. Mum is pinning her hair by the vanity. She smiles at Edmund over her shoulder, and then turns back to the mirror.

"Are you leaving now?" Edmund asks desperately. He looks down at the floor as his cheeks burn.

"Not quite yet, Eddy." His father grunts as he stands, fiddling with the stiff collar of his uniform. Making an impatient sound, Edmund's mother darts forward to fold it over for him. The look Edmund witnesses pass between his parents make his eyes sting.

"Where's your suitcase?"

Dad has a strange look on his face when he points to the foot of the bed. Edmund sees it and swallows hard. It all suddenly seems very real. He nods and retreats hastily to the bathroom, where he turns on the bathwater to hide the sound and vomits into the toilet.

A minute later, Peter is knocking on the door. "We're going to have breakfast now, Eddy."

"I'll meet you downstairs," Edmund rasps, flushing quickly. Turning off the bathwater, he washes his mouth out in the sink.

"Are you alright in there?" Edmund panics. The last thing he needs right now is Peter's suspicion.

"Fine!" he squeaks, opening the door, "I'm just finishing up."

Peter leans against the doorframe, surveying his younger brother's face. "I'll wait for you, then."

"No!" Peter raises his eyebrows and reaches out to touch Edmund's cheek.

"Are you sure you're not sick, Eddy? You're awfully flushed and sweaty."

"For the last time, Pete, I'm fine! Now please go downstairs and stop worrying. I'll be there in a moment." Peter surveys his younger brother carefully. Edmund stares up at him pleadingly, and he never can say no to those eyes. He sighs.

"Alright, then. Don't take too long."

"I won't!" Edmund graces him with an over-bright smile and shuts the door in his face. Peter has to jump back to avoid pinching his fingers. Muttering about crazy little brothers, he heads downstairs.

Edmund breathes a sigh of relief and waits until he can't hear Peter anymore. Once the upstairs has gone silent, he tiptoes out of the bathroom and into his parents' bedroom. His father's suitcase is still there. He stares at it for another moment before darting forward to clasp the handle. It's surprisingly heavy. Edmund tugs the suitcase down the hall and into his room. He looks around wildly, then shoves it under his bed. He runs to the dresser and pulls out a pile of underwear and socks, tossing them on top of the suitcase. Anyone looking, he hopes, will just see a pile of dirty clothes and not his father's bag disguised beneath. Then, whistling a light tune, Edmund sidles downstairs.

Breakfast is a tense affair and Peter isn't much sorry when it's over. He is only sorry because it means Dad's closer to leaving. He stays behind to put away the washed dishes while his father goes upstairs to get his suitcase. Moments later, he's calling down, "Helen? Did you move my bag?"

There's a clatter and Peter turns to see Edmund shakily replacing the pepper grinder to an upright position. He's gone very pale again. Peter really hopes he isn't ill. When Edmund catches something, it's never pretty.

Peter watches Mum move towards the stairs, motioning for Susan to take over the clean-up. Susan promptly enlists Lucy to dry. Edmund remains at the table, not offering to help. Not speaking at all, really, which Peter notices.

"No, I left it right where you told me to, Richard. Has it gone?"

"Yes, it's gone, if that's even possible! And if I don't find it soon, I'll be late for the train."

Another clatter and Edmund has upended the pepper grinder again. Peter stares, feeling a cold sort of premonition wash over him. "Eddy?" He moves quietly to his brother's side and kneels down by his chair. "Do you know something about Dad's missing suitcase?"

Edmund's face is set. For good measure he crosses his arms over his chest. "No," he replies, but his voice is very small.

"Are you sure?" Edmund looks at Peter out of the corner of his eye, considering. Peter holds his breath.

"Won't it be good?" He turns to face Peter fully, eyes shining. "If Dad can't find his suitcase, he'll miss his train. Then he can't go. Won't it be good?"

Peter stands too quickly, slams his shoulder into the table and upends both the pepper grinder and salt shaker, as well as knocks the butter dish to the floor. Susan screams at the crash, and Lucy runs out of the room crying, "Mummy!"

"Mum!" Peter echoes. He starts to leave the room but stops at the tug on his sleeve. Edmund is staring up at him now, stricken.

"Peter, please-!"

Peter closes his eyes and pulls away. His shoulder throbs. "I'm sorry, Eddy. But don't you see? Dad will go whether he has his suitcase or not." He crosses the room in two strides and then slows up the stairs, his feet like lead. "Mum?" he calls. She pokes her head out of her bedroom and Peter takes a deep breath. "I know where the suitcase is."

A flurry of action later, Mr. Pevensie is standing at the door. It has been decided that the children will not go with their parents to the station, so that the separation might be easier. It has not been easier. Susan and Lucy are sobbing inconsolably on the couch, Edmund is attempting to blend in with the curtains, and Peter is struggling not to cry.

"Edmund?" Peter watches as his little brother jolts, then looks towards his father fearfully. Mr. Pevensie smiles. "Come here, son."

Wide-eyed, Edmund walks across the room. He looks like he's walking to his death. Peter debates following as the two leave the room, but he knows it's not his place. Instead, he sits on the couch with the girls and tries to stop their crying. He doesn't do a very good job, but across from him in a chair, Mum smiles weakly.

"Edmund." His father is crouching in front of him, looking at him very seriously. Edmund wants to crawl into bed and hide for a year. "Eddy, look at me. I'm not angry."

He laughs in disbelief. "I hid your suitcase!"

"And I understand why. But Eddy, I have to go. I would have left without it if I had to."

Edmund sniffs. "That's what Peter said."

He gasps as his father pulls him into a tight hug. "I love you so much, Eddy. Thank you for hiding my suitcase and trying to make me stay. But you know why I have to go, don't you? To stop the bad man from hurting people."

"Fuhrer Hitler?"

"Yes, Eddy, the German Fuhrer. He's killing a lot of people and I have to help stop him."

"But what if he kills you?" The words are torn from his lips before he can bite them back. He buries his face in Dad's shoulder, trying to stifle his sobs.

"He won't Eddy. I'll be safe. Do you know why?" His father rubs up and down his back, and slowly Edmund calms.

"Why?"

"Because I have you to come home to." He smiles gently. "I love you, Eddy."

Edmund feels warm all over in the most wonderful of ways. He hugs Dad tightly and then steps back. "I love you too, Daddy."

His father smiles and chucks him under the chin. "Now be good and listen to your Mum and Peter, alright?"

"I'll listen to Mum," he promises.

"Peter too."

Edmund scowls. "He's not the boss of me."

His father laughs and Edmund grins shyly. "Send him out, will you, Eddy?"

He nods, darts in for a last hug, then steps into the living room. "Go, Peter." He refuses to look at his brother as he leaves the room. After all, he told where the suitcase was. Despite what Dad said, maybe he would have stayed.

Peter stands nervously in front of his father. "Hullo, Dad." He thinks how unfamiliar his father looks in his brown fatigues. He wonders if Dad will have to cut his hair when he gets to training, the way he's seen army men do in photographs.

Mr. Pevensie lays a hand on his shoulder, looking at him seriously. "Peter Pevensie. My brave boy. I need you to take my place while I'm gone."

Peter gapes. "Sir?"

"You'll defer to your mother, of course, but I'm asking you to help keep the others in line. Sometimes they're too much for her. As the eldest, Peter, I'm asking this of you. Will you do it?"

Peter stands straighter. He has to stop himself from saluting. "Yes, sir. I'll do my best!"

"I'm sure your best will be more than enough. When I come back, you'll probably have done my job better than me!" His father jokes.

"Oh no!" Peter cries, horrified, "You'll always be Dad!"

He chokes off a yell of surprise as his father swoops down and hugs him tight. "I love you, Peter. So much. Watch out for Eddy, will you? He's going to have a rough time."

Peter isn't exactly sure what that means, but he nods anyway. "Yes, sir. I will. And I love you a lot too, Dad."

With that, his father releases him and calls to Mum, who comes to the door, tugging at her hat. "I'll be back in an hour, Peter," she says, "Will you-"

"Watch the others? Of course, Mum. Take your time." He smiles and waves until they drive down the road and out of sight, then shuts the door and leans against it, fighting tears. When he has himself under control, Peter returns to the living room. Quietly, he asks Susan if she'd like to get a game from the cabinet for them to play. Susan smiles sadly at him in understanding, and does as he asks. Edmund stands up suddenly.

"I don't want to play." The words come out loud and fast. He's shaking, fists clenched.

"It'll be fun, Eddy," Lucy coaxes, "You can be on my team. Please play!"

"I don't want to be on your rotten team!" Edmund spits, "You always lose."

He rolls his eyes as Lucy begins to wail. Peter frowns. "You can go to your room, then. We don't want you around if you're going to be rude."

"You can't tell me where to go, Peter Pevensie! You're not in charge of me!" Edmund screams now to be heard over Lucy's cries. Susan rocks her, staring at Peter in a panic. He doesn't know what to do.

"Dad said-"

"Bugger what Dad said! I don't care!" And with that, Edmund runs from the room.

Peter stares helplessly after his brother and wonders what else could possibly go wrong.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**I** **chose September 14****th**** because Germany invades Poland on September 1****st****. I thought Mr. Pevensie would enlist rather quickly, and be called up rather quickly as well.**

**Also, choosing Richard for Mr. Pevensie's name was my own invention. I couldn't find his name anywhere, and I rather like the idea of him being exceedingly brave like Richard the Lionheart.**

**I chose the Pevensies' birthdays as well, putting Peter's in July, Susan's in late September, Edmund's in November, and Lucy's in May.**

**Source for Mr. Pevensie's uniform: thehistorybunker . co . uk / acatalog / Tunics _ and _ Smocks . html**

**Source for a 1939 calendar: timeanddate calendar / ? year = 1939 & country = 9**

**Please review!**


	2. Lion's Strike

**Welcome to the second installment! Thank you to my lovely reviewers! To the Guest I was not able to personally reply to, thank you for reading as well! I really appreciate it. **

**Onward!**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter One: Lion's Strike**_

**London, September 26****th****, 1939**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Peter is running. He can't remember when he started or exactly how he found out this information that causes him to run, but it doesn't matter. All he knows is the harsh rasp of his breathing and the thundering of his heart.

His muscles twist and bunch as he stumbles, overreaching his stride, but windmilling his arms, he manages to remain upright. He bursts into the entrance hall from a corridor off to one side and powers through to the main doors, barely sparing a glance for the other students he knocks into.

He's forced his way out into the courtyard and for an instant he's blinded by the sun. He slows, blinking, throwing up a hand to shield his eyes. As his sight clears, he sees Them.

Like a pack of ravening wolves surrounding their weak, defenseless prey, they have encircled him, trapped him so that Peter can hardly make out his small form between their jostling shoulders and skittering legs. They yip and yell, urging each other on, bolstering their courage.

One lunges forward, fists clenched. For an instant there's a gap in the mob and Peter sees him standing unsteadily in the center of the pack, blood spilling over his lip. The boy lands his fist in his face. Peter watches his little brother fall with a garbled cry of pain and his vision turns red.

He is running again. He can't remember when he grabbed two of the boys by the shoulders and flung them aside, only knows that it must have happened because they are on the ground looking confused. He can't remember when he shoved the third backwards so that he tripped over his own feet. The sound of his body smacking the stones echoes off the walls of the schoolyard. He can't remember when he grabbed that boy, that fourth miserable boy who had the audacity to punch his little brother so that his cheek shines wetly scarlet, but he does remember hitting him hard enough to break his nose.

He remembers saying, between gasps for breath, "Just returning the favor, McKinnon. Hope you can crawl to the nurse before she closes in," he makes a great show of checking the time, "five minutes." Then he turns and offers his hand to his brother, smiling warmly and asking, "Alright, then, Eddy?"

The glare he receives leaves him more winded than his race across the school. The unmitigated fury in those dark eyes leaves him in physical pain and he withdraws his hand, feeling bitten. He watches in silence as the small, crumpled form on the stones rises to his feet and tugs on the hole in his sleeve, staring intently at the blood ground into the threads of his shirt.

"I had it sorted!" Edmund's tone is petulantly venomous, childlike yet brutally cruel. Peter can't resist sniping back.

"Of course you did. That's why you were getting pummeled." He regrets the jibe instantly, but his younger brother always manages to make him angry. Why can't he just be grateful? "You're welcome, anyways." He thinks of something as Edmund doesn't reply. "Why in the world would you get into a fight, Edmund?"

He stands in stunned disbelief as the smaller boy brushes past him, heading for the dormitory. Peter wheels, "Aren't you going to the nurse?"

The dark head doesn't turn as he answers, "No. You might want to though, you're bleeding. Mum's going to have a fit when she finds out you got hurt." The tone is almost friendly for a moment, then hardens. "Hope she takes away your welcome-home supper for fighting, Petey."

Peter stares after the boy in frustration for a few moments before registering the pain. He can't remember how it happened, but judging by his limited visibility, he has a black eye. He's also fairly certain he possesses at least two bruised ribs. His knuckles are scraped and he's ripped both knees of his trousers. Grimacing, he starts for the nurse, wondering when the boys had a chance to attack him, and how they managed to inflict so much damage. He wasn't paying attention to protection, he supposes, but it's really no excuse.

The pain of his injuries fades after he takes the pills the nurse gives him, but lying in his bed that night, the stab of Edmund's words haunt him, and the wild anger he saw in his little brother's unexpected glare leaves him terrified.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Please review!**


	3. Fox's Trickery

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Two: Fox's Trickery**_

**London, October 29****th****, 1939**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Edmund is walking along the busy London street reveling in his stolen freedom. Mum had arrived at school today and declared that since it was the weekend, the headmaster wouldn't mind too much if she took her children out for a bit of shopping, would he? It was so lonely with only little Lucy in the house and her husband off fighting the Germans, doing his honorable service for King and Country.

Well, there really wasn't much to be said to that, and so Edmund and Peter had been swept out of the building, gone with Mum and Lucy to pick up Susan from her school, and were whiling the day away with some "necessary" spending. Mum has sent Edmund and Peter to the store to get groceries, but since she and the girls won't be along for some time due to their current distraction in the dress shop, he supposes it won't matter if he tarries a bit.

He's managed to slip past Peter, too, a rare accomplishment, but Peter has muttered something about meeting up and disappears into the crush of people dodging across the road. Edmund hasn't bothered watching where his elder brother has gone, but he has picked up his pace, hoping to avoid finding him along the way.

He is kicking a small stone along the sidewalk, watching it bounce and roll over cracks in the pavement. A cold gust of wind tugs at his cap and he claps a hand over it while sliding the other into his pocket. He might not want to go get the food-standing in line and hoping something good's come through the supply line-but losing Mum's money means losing meals, and he rather enjoys eating.

When the breeze subsides, Edmund pulls his hand from his pocket and pauses, hearing a 'ping' as something falls and hits the ground. He watches as the shiny coin Lucy has slipped him rolls across the concrete and into the gutter. She had whispered that since she couldn't go, would he please see if there wasn't some licorice still at the bottom of the candy bin, and though she knew it was a slim chance, if he found some, she'd share…

Well he isn't about to dig around in some mucky puddle for Lucy's money, so he'll just tell her there hadn't been any licorice. But how to explain the missing coin? Perhaps he can tell her he has been mugged. If he makes it sound dramatic enough, she'll believe him. She believes ridiculous things these days. Like that there's fairies in the garden and imps warming themselves by the fireplace…

"Please, sir, I really must get on. I have to meet my brother at the store."

Bother. Edmund scowls. He's met up with Peter after all. Looking up, Edmund sees Peter a few feet past him, standing uncomfortably in front of a large, impressive-looking man. Edmund wanders closer, recognizing the uniform, so like his father's in the picture he recently sent home. But if it were Dad that Peter was talking to, he wouldn't look so scared.

He can just make out what the man is saying now, standing up so straight and tall that another gust of wind nearly snatches his voice away. He is a very large man, Edmund thinks, and now that he's so near him, he can see his face. He's smiling, the uniformed army man, but something is off.

"Surely, son, you want to support your country?" The man has a deep, booming voice, like a cannon.

Peter shifts uneasily. "Well, of course, sir, but I'm too young to fight. Father's on the front lines, and he's told me to take care of Mum, the girls, and Eddy, who I really must go find. We're picking up our groceries, you see…"

Edmund remembers very suddenly something his father told him once: you can be deceived by a man's smile, but never his eyes. The large man is smiling, to be sure, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. He looks rather like that politician in the cartoon Edmund saw his mother reading in the paper: a friendly man who wasn't actually very nice. The cartoon had shown him dressed as a hunter.

The large man looks fairly like that politician-hunter. And Peter, Edmund realizes, is quite clearly his prey. Edmund watches his brother squirm and smirks in satisfaction. Peter's getting a taste of his own medicine; made to feel small and out of control. He ought to know he isn't Dad, and perhaps this uniformed man is the one to do it. Crossing his arms, Edmund leans against a lamppost and wishes he has popcorn, like in the cinema. But popcorn's not sold anymore because the corn's limited. Mum and her friends have started whispering about possible rationing. Edmund's not sure what that means, but he supposes it's worse than limiting, and that's rather disappointing. He misses popcorn.

The large man is speaking again, and Edmund leans in to hear his brother get scolded. He hums with glee.

"That's all well and good, and I do understand that you're too young to fight now, son. But in a few years, you'll be just the right age. And if-God forbid-this war is still going on in a few years, wouldn't it be nice that you don't even have to sign up to fight because you've already done so? Gotten your papers in order and saved your mother the trouble? Come now, surely you see the sense in that."

Edmund frowns. He expects Peter to get lectured about not being supportive of the war, but to sign up for an early draft? That doesn't make much sense. It won't take effect for a while, of course, but why sign up at all when things are so uncertain? To assume the war will be going on several years from now, well, Edmund thinks this is a bit too far on the part of the uniformed man. He must be a recruitment officer for the army. Perhaps he's having a slow day. Well, no matter. Peter will refuse, the man will see sense, and Edmund will dart past them to reach the store first. He will complain about how long Peter took and how he hated waiting…

But Peter pales and he doesn't speak. Edmund's brows draw together. He notices Peter swallow hard and open his mouth to reply, but his voice isn't all that confident. It's higher than Lucy's and he doesn't seem to realize he's shifted slightly, as though poised to run.

"Sir, I'm really much too young to even sign up, and my Mum would want to be here with me. I couldn't fill out the paperwork without her." He's pleading, Edmund notices with slight shock. He's never seen Peter beg for anything, not even that toy train he wanted once for Christmas.

"Nonsense! You seem like a clever boy and I'm sure with my help we'll have everything organized quickly. Why don't you just write your name here, son?" Edmund's mouth goes dry as the large man holds out a clipboard to Peter and waves it under his nose. When Peter still hesitates, hand hovering over the pen, the man grasps his shoulder, squeezing it. "What are you waiting for?"

Peter looks cornered, and Edmund hasn't even realized he moved before he's standing beside Peter, looping his arm through his. Peter jolts, then turns and looks at him with wild, hunted eyes.

Edmund smiles brightly at him, hiding exactly how well he understands the look on Peter's face. "Peter! There you are! Mum sent me to find you!" He looks up at the man and positively beams. "Hullo, sir. I'm sorry to interrupt, but Mum's at the store waiting for Peter. He was supposed to get on line with the money and we'd catch him up there, but he never showed. I guess he got distracted. Our Peter," he shakes his head reprovingly, "is such a supporter of the war's cause, and he begs Mum to let him go off to fight like our father, but Dad told him to mind the rest of us until he's of age. Doesn't stop him from trying to get in early though!" He drags Peter out from under the man's hand and Peter trips as he steps silently backwards. "Pleasure to meet you, and we'll look you up in a few years!" He gives the man a cheerful wave and tugs Peter down the street at a near run, not daring to look back and savor the shocked and infuriated expression on the recruiter's face.

Edmund doesn't stop until he reaches the store and steers Peter into the line. Then he lets go, hastily shoving his hands into his pockets again and looking down at his feet. He refuses to ponder why his palms are sweaty and his heart is tight in his chest. Most likely it's the exertion.

"Thank you, Eddy." Peter sounds hoarse, as though he's been screaming.

Edmund doesn't look at him, doesn't want to see the surprise in his face, Peter's astonishment that his little brother could do something like this. He shrugs and snaps, "Mum said to go to the grocer, Peter, not the draft office."

Peter laughs-Actually laughs! What's he playing at?-and says, "Well I had meant to drop in at the place next door and get Susan a new book, but I got waylaid by our friend back there. He's not good at taking no for an answer."

"And you're not good at giving it to him." Edmund's voice is sharp. He turns to glare at Peter, but his brother is far away, no longer listening to him.

"I want to enlist, you know. When the time comes. But now…" he turns back to Edmund, who gets caught in Peter's troubled gaze and can't look away. "Now isn't the right time. You're too young."

The fury returns. Bother Peter and thinking he's Dad! "As are you! Dad said to stay here, Peter. You can't leave Mum and the girls!"

"And I can leave you?" Peter's eyes are overbright as he faces him. There is too much honesty there.

Edmund feels his cheeks heat and he looks away again. "I don't need you. I can look after myself."

It is some time before Peter replies, tightly, "Of course you can, Eddy," and turns away.

Edmund doesn't speak to Peter for three days.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Edmund sounds a bit like pre-Dragoned Eustace here. Perhaps Eustace's horrid personality was similar to Edmund's sourpuss before the Just King met the White Witch and became something even worse? Interesting to think about.**

**Poland was invaded September 1939, causing Britain to declare war on Germany. In October 1939, not having mustered enough manpower, Britain declared a draft starting at age 18. Source: historyonthenet WW2 / conscription . htm**

**Please review!**


	4. Lion's Gift

**To rthstewart, TwinklyMarshmellowSnowPuffle , and Eftelthing, thank you for following (and favoriting) my story! If you review, I'll thank you personally, but this is all I can do if you don't leave a message. :/ Still, I appreciate it!  
**

******Onward!**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Three: Lion's Gift**_

**Finchley, November 19****th****, 1939**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Peter rolls over in bed and forces his eyes open. He must not sleep. Tonight of all nights, it's imperative that he not give in. It's hard to stay up so late, but he's promised himself he'll do it, and he intends to keep that promise.

He did think it would be an easier pledge to keep, though. But it's only two more hours. How hard can it be? Dad always manages it.

Peter pushes up the sleeve of his nightshirt and pinches his arm furiously. He winces, then repeats the motion. After a few moments, the pain fades and he feels sleepy again. That option clearly doesn't work.

He reaches up and holds open his eyelids, but when they itch and he needs to blink, he finds it nearly impossible to reopen them again. Another unusable choice.

Throwing off the blankets, Peter slides out of bed and into his slippers. Padding over to the closet he shares with Edmund when at home, he tugs open the door and freezes when it creaks. His little brother doesn't move, still burrowed under the covers and fast asleep. Peter reaches into the closet. He never takes his eyes off his brother as he unhooks his dressing-gown and shrugs it over his shoulders. When he ties it about his waist, he pauses, frowning. His robe isn't usually so tight. He looks down and realizes that he has accidentally taken Edmund's, but he doesn't see that as a problem. In fact, it seems more like a good sign.

Peter doesn't touch the closet door again, lest he wakes Edmund with its creaking, and instead tiptoes out of their bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom. He splashes water on his face, takes a long drink, and looks at the clock on the wall. One hour and fifty minutes to go, now. He simply must stay awake.

After he slides a comb through his hair and decides he's really run out of things to do in the bathroom, Peter slips down the hall and silently pushes open the door to the girls' room. He daren't go in, Lucy being such a light sleeper, but he watches for a few minutes, smiling at the ferocity of her stranglehold on Elly the stuffed elephant. He pities Elly. Mum will have to sew her head back on and add stuffing in her neck soon enough.

He watches Susan as well, but watching Susan is rather boring, if he's being honest. She lies there so perfectly, like a queen. Perhaps the man Susan marries will enjoy watching someone so peaceful, but Peter is looking for aids for wakefulness, not reminders of what he could be doing instead. Susan makes sleeping look like the most wonderful thing in the world. And, Peter thinks, fighting a yawn, maybe it is. He could certainly use it right now.

Before leaving the girls' bedroom, Peter squints at the clock on the nightstand between them. One hour and forty-six minutes. Bother. He decides to walk around some more.

He considers looking in on Mum, but there's something too personal about watching her sleep by herself. If Dad was with her, it would be normal. He might be coming in for comfort from a bad dream. But Dad is gone, off fighting somewhere, and Peter doesn't want to see his mother all alone. He doesn't want her unhappy. That's why he's taking up this tradition, one she might not even know about, but that Peter does because he's been there every time.

It's Dad and Edmund's thing, and Peter's allowed to watch, but with Dad away…well, he doesn't want Eddy to think he's forgotten. Peter heads for the stairs, smiling wistfully. He's always wished Dad would do it for him too, this special thing, but he understands that he has other moments with Dad to look forward to. The nighttime visit is Eddy's alone.

Downstairs, Peter makes his way into the kitchen and fumbles about in the drawers for a candle. He wants to turn on a light, but the hum of electricity might wake Mum or Lucy—never Susan, she can probably sleep through a bombing, though he hopes he never finds out if that's a fact—and he doesn't want their interference. He wants to get this right on his own.

He smiles when his hand closes around a candle, and soon after, Peter discovers the matches. Carefully, he lights the taper and sets it into a bell-shaped glass sheath with a wooden handle before he turns to the icebox. In the back, where he quietly slipped it earlier in the day is a small white box tied with silver and blue ribbons. He's saved up all his penny-candy money for weeks to buy it, and he knows he was lucky to get it, sugar rations the way they are. It was indecently expensive, but Peter doesn't care. Even not managing to buy Susan that book a month ago, though it had disappointed her because he had promised, helped pay for this prize. He hopes it will be enough, because he couldn't afford to get Eddy anything else.

Peter sets the box on the kitchen table, along with two plates, napkins, and two forks. He thinks about pouring milk, but realizes that leaving it out for almost two hours would probably spoil it, so he'll get around to it later. Then, he sits at the table and tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling. He is so tired. And there is still…one hour and thirty minutes until he wakes Edmund. Sighing, Peter leans forward, resting his arms on the table, pillowing his head. He's just going to close his eyes for a few moments, not too long really, just a few heartbeats more…

"What are you doing?"

Peter jolts upright. Edmund is standing at the doorway to the kitchen, swathed in Peter's dressing-gown, the sleeves of which cover his hands completely. He stares at Peter in confusion. His eyes drop from Peter's sleep-numbed expression to the box on the kitchen table and he pales. "Peter, what is this?"

Peter's mouth goes dry as he stands nervously, shoving his hands into Edmund's dressing-gown pockets. "It's my birthday present to you, Eddy." He glances at the clock above the sink and groans. "And I overslept it by three hours. I'm so sorry-"

"What are you going on about?" Edmund's voice is shaking, and he hasn't moved from the kitchen doorway. "What were you doing for my birthday?"

"Well, it is your birthday, Eddy, and I thought maybe I could get you a cake and wake you up at midnight and we'd come down and eat it." Peter shifts his weight uneasily. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to wake Eddy at midnight and say, 'Why don't we have a little snack, birthday boy?' the way Dad did. He was supposed to bring Eddy downstairs and sit him at the table, sing happy birthday while he opened his cake-

"That's what Dad does."

Edmund glares at him, openly hostile. Peter scrambles.

"I know, Eddy. But I thought it was really nice and since Dad isn't here that I'd do it for him, you know? So you wouldn't think anyone had forgotten." He gestures to the cake. "So, three hours late, but still. Happy birthday, Eddy."

Edmund's face has twisted. He's staring at the box on the table as though it's insulted him. He strides into the room and Peter's stomach churns. He wouldn't-

He can't stop the gasp of horror that leaves his lips as Edmund knocks the box to the floor and steps on it. Creamy frosting spurts out like blood from a wound.

"You're not Dad, Peter," Edmund looks at him steadily, his eyes unreadable except for their blinding anger.

He steps up to Peter and even though he's a good three inches taller, Peter feels quite small as Edmund grabs fistfuls of his—or rather, Edmund's—dressing-gown. "Stop trying to be."

Peter watches him leave, shocked and silent. After he hears the bedroom door slam upstairs, he kneels and carefully cleans up the mess Edmund's made and tosses it into the rubbish bin. He swipes at his eyes, puts away the plates, blows out the candle.

As he walks up the stairs to bed, his horror turns to raw fury. How dare Edmund throw that cake to the floor? He's sacrificed so much to get that cake and Edmund never even looked at it. Peter knows he isn't Dad. He's just trying to be Peter. He just wants to watch out for everyone like Dad asked him to.

He knew Dad's cakes to Edmund always had the same words scrawled across them in frosting: 'Happy Birthday Eddy and Many Returns!'

His cake had simply said, 'Make a Wish!'

Well, if he could have that wish, Peter would want Edmund to bugger off and go live somewhere else where he could be sour and not hurt anyone by it. Mum had taken them all off school to celebrate, but that didn't matter now. Peter knows Edmund will be horrid when morning comes, and Lucy will get the worst of it. Edmund never dares to be rude to Mum, but he'll be cheeky to Susan and downright cruel to Lucy. He'll probably tell them their presents are awful. Susan will sigh and walk away, but Lucy will stay and cry and he, Peter, will have to comfort her. Lie through his teeth and tell her that Edmund's just having a bad day and he doesn't mean what he says.

Peter enters his bedroom and walks over to the closet to hang up Edmund's dressing-gown without so much as glancing at its owner. Sliding under the covers and into bed, Peter turns to face the wall and blinks back his tears.

He doesn't want to be like Dad, but sometimes Edmund forces him into it. And Peter knows with every fiber of his being that as badly as he has ruined things tonight, tomorrow will be much worse.

And Peter will have to pick up the pieces.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**According to the Narnia Wiki, Edmund's birthday is sometime in September. I decided to change this slightly, as I don't believe C.S. Lewis ever really confirmed it. I think as long as Edmund's birthday is sometime during the winter any day is appropriate. **

**Please review!**


	5. Fox's Penalty

**Thank you OldFashionedGirl95 for favoriting my story (forgot to say that in my review reply), as well as Gremlin-Rayne for making me a Favorite Author! You make me so happy.  
**

**Sorry for the delay...I had my wisdom teeth taken out on Friday and spent the day pretty much a miserable mess. So now, properly looked over, here's your next chapter!  
**

**Onward!  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Four: Fox's Penalty**_

**London, December 21****st****, 1939**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

"Edmund Aiden Pevensie!" The boy in question sinks lower in his seat. He crosses his arms over his chest and hopes he heard wrong. They wouldn't call her in, not just before winter hols.

"Edmund, look at me when I speak to you!"

Bloody hell. They _had_ called Mum in. Edmund turns his head slowly, meets her furious stare. "Hullo, Mum."

"Don't you 'hullo' me, young man. I want to know what's going on here!" There's an intake of breath and Edmund jerks away from his Mum's fingers on his cheek. "What happened to your face?"

"I can explain that, Mrs. Pevensie."

Blast. Edmund looks up into the disapproving eyes of Headmaster Dunham and cringes. The man has it out for him, he just knows it.

"Why don't we step into my office?" The remark is phrased as a question, but Edmund knows that's merely a formality. The Headmaster is giving an order. Scowling, Edmund shakes his head.

He yelps as Mum digs her fingers into his arm and yanks him upright. "Yes, why don't we?" she asks icily, and Edmund is herded into the Headmaster's office before he quite knows what's happening.

He's seated in yet another stiff-backed chair next to his mother, and the Headmaster sits in a leather chair behind his desk. The chair creaks as he sits down, and Edmund smirks. The man is built like a whale. He wonders how long the chair can hold out.

"I'm so sorry to call you down to the school, Mrs. Pevensie, with the winter holidays starting tomorrow. But I'm afraid Edmund's gotten into a spot of trouble." Headmaster fastidiously straightens the planner on his desk, pulling a file from beneath it. Edmund's file.

Edmund rolls his eyes as Mum stiffens. "What sort of trouble, Mr. Dunham?"

There's a pause. Headmaster glances up at Edmund from under heavy lids. His lips purse. "Perhaps you would like to tell her yourself, Edmund?"

Edmund shifts in his seat. "I didn't do anything."

Headmaster leans forward, folding his hands on top of his planner. "Oh, yes you did, young sir. And your behavior is unacceptable on school premises."

"Bugger your school," Edmund mutters. Mum gasps, reddening, but Headmaster ignores Edmund's comment and turns back to face Mrs. Pevensie.

"The facts of the matter are, Helen—may I call you Helen?—that Edmund gotten into yet another fight here at Hardsworth's Academy for Boys. Now, one fight the administration can overlook with proper disciplinary action. Two fights, even. But three, and with the boy Edmund was fighting becoming so badly injured? Well, I'm sure you can imagine our dismay." Headmaster's voice drops in consternation, his eyebrows knit together.

"Yes," Edmund hears his Mum say faintly, "I understand." He wants to punch Headmaster in the face, but decides it's not worth his trouble. His hand's still throbbing from when he hit Benny Jorkins' kneecap. This was after he'd broken his nose and a few fingers, starting with easy things but ones that were sure to do damage. And honestly, he'd been aiming higher than Benny's kneecap, but the little prat brought his leg up so fast that he blocked it. That one was hardly Edmund's fault.

"So, Helen, we're hoping you'd take Edmund home today and perhaps he can come back after the holidays on academic probation? If his behavior improves, we at Hardsworth's would be pleased to welcome him back as a regular pupil." A paper is slid over the desk towards Mum. It has a fancy letterhead at the top and a place to sign on the bottom. Discreetly, Headmaster places a fountain pen within Mum's reach. She doesn't move.

Edmund's ears are ringing. Take him home today? But hols don't start until tomorrow. That would mean he was—

"Suspension, then?" Mum's gloved hands twist around her purse and Edmund glowers. Like she really cares about anything but the impression it'll make on the neighbors. And _what _will she tell Great-Aunt Marjorie! "But the holidays start tomorrow and Peter will still be here—"

"Why don't you take Peter home today? We won't put it on his record as anything but an absence." Headmaster brightens. "Peter is quite an asset to our school, Helen. Aside from the scrape he got into alongside his brother back in September, he's been the image of excellence all students should strive for. You should be quite proud of your eldest boy, Mrs. Pevensie."

The implication is clear. Be proud of your perfect son. We're sorry about the not-so-perfect one, but please take him away. Now. Before rich Mr. Jorkins decides to remove his generous monthly funding to our institution.

"Well," Mrs. Pevensie sighs. She reaches for the pen and hastily reads over the document. Nodding once, she signs her name. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Dunham. I'll send the boys to pack and then we'll be on our way."

"Thank you, Helen." As Headmaster Dunham scoots forward to shake Mum's hand, his chair makes an ominous snapping noise. He stands quickly. Edmund chokes on a laugh. "Pleasure to see you. Have a good day."

Edmund walks beside Mum out of the office and down the hall to his dorm. He doesn't dare look at her. "Where's Peter at this time, Edmund?" she says at last. He scuffs his feet, leaving black marks on the floor.

"I dunno." Go find him, Perfect Peter. Peter the Wonderful, Peter the Excellent, it's always Peter!

"I'm here, Mum." Peter screeches around the corner, winded. "I just got a note in class saying I needed to come to Eddy's dorm. What's going on? Why are you here? Is everything alright? Is it Dad?" His voice rises in anxiety as he clutches the missive from the office tightly in his hand. His knuckles turn white.

"Nothing is wrong with your father, Peter. You just need to go and pack your things; we're leaving for home today." Mum sounds weary, opening her arms for Peter to lean in and hug her. He kisses her cheek and hugs her warmly, then gives her a puzzled look.

"Leaving today? But why?"

"Edmund was suspended until after the holidays for fighting." Mum rubs at her temples, closing her eyes. Edmund bites his lip so hard, he tastes blood.

"Suspended for fighting?" Peter looks bewildered. "Eddy, why?"

Edmund has had enough. He bolts into his dorm and begins throwing his clothes in his suitcase. He'd rather pack than face those two and their constant questioning.

Later, in the car, Edmund is silent. Peter turns around in the front seat to face him. "Why did you start a fight, Eddy?" he asks quietly. "You knew you were being watched."

"I didn't start it!" Edmund protests suddenly. "Benny said something."

"What did he say?" Peter asks patiently.

"He—he said Dad was a coward and probably hiding rather than fighting. He said I was the son of a coward and I didn't know how to fight. So I hit him," he ends rather lamely, feeling his eyes swell up with tears.

"Oh, Eddy," Peter reaches back and touches his knee. "We know you're no coward. And neither is Dad. You don't need to fight about it."

Edmund catches himself leaning into Peter's touch and pulls back, horrified. "Stop it!" he shouts and Peter withdraws his hand, eyes wide. "You're not Dad. You don't know what you're talking about!"

"And neither do you, Edmund Pevensie." Mum's voice is sharp as she glares at him in the rearview mirror. "You're not doing well at that school. There are too many distractions." There's something final in her tone that frightens Edmund.

"No, Mum, I—"

She cuts him off, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "You won't be attending Hardsworth's after the holidays, Edmund. I'm going to find you a new school, one where you can start fresh. Just the other day I was reading about a place called the Experiment House. It's for children who have difficulty adjusting. I think I'll ring them when we get home…"

Edmund can't speak. Change schools mid-year? Have to start all over and make new friends? She couldn't be serious, not really.

"Mum," Peter's reasonable tone grates on Edmund's nerves. "I don't think that's necessary. Edmund knows he needs to control his temper. And I'm there to watch out for him. Please don't worry." Edmund waits, hoping despite himself that Mum will listen. If anyone can sway Mum, it's Peter.

She sighs. "No, I really don't think—"

"Please, Mum, you know Dad worked so hard to get us into Hardsworth's, he wouldn't want—"

"This is not a debate, Peter George!" Mum seems to realize that her voice is perhaps harsher than she meant, because she softens as Peter's hurt face flashes in the wing mirror. "Thank you for taking responsibility, but I really can't ask that of you."

"But Mum—"

"That's _enough_, Peter." And Peter quiets. All Edmund hears is the rumbling of the car's motor and the rushing of blood in his ears, as if he's alone.

Later that night, when Edmund has crept downstairs to sneak a biscuit (he was sent to bed without supper), he hears Mum and Peter talking in the kitchen and frowns, infuriated. Why do they have to be in that room? He's so hungry! Deciding to enact some form of revenge as consolation, Edmund leans against the banister of the stairs and listens.

"Really, Mum, I'll do a better job of looking out for Edmund, I promise! Don't send him to some school we know nothing about. I can't help him there and that worries me. How will we know if there's anything wrong?" Peter is pacing the floor. Edmund feels a strange warmth in his chest as he listens. He wonders if it's indigestion.

"Peter, darling. I understand what you're saying. But I think Edmund needs a fresh start, and this school is especially for troubled children. Edmund will do well there, I know it. Not at Hardsworth's, where the administration is set against him." Mum's chair scrapes the floor and Edmund backs up a few steps. She is getting ready to leave the room. He is gripping the banister so hard, he'll have splinters in his hands when he lets go.

"Mum!" Peter is storming now, building up for a fight. "How can you say that? Edmund's not troubled! He's just hurting because of Dad being gone. And you're just going to send him off because of something some boy said—"

"No, Peter, I'm sending him to the Experiment House because he needs help! And that's final! Now, please, go to bed."

Edmund is under the covers with the lights out before Mum reaches the stairs. He listens to her pass by his door and into her bedroom. A few minutes later, Peter follows. When he enters the room, Edmund pretends he's asleep. He listens to his older brother sniffling as he gets into bed and so he focuses on regulating his breathing.

Blast Mum for being so horrible. And blast Peter for, well, Edmund isn't sure what exactly, but he knows there's got to be something. Betraying him, he supposes. Yes, that will do. Letting Mum get away with changing his school. How will they explain this to the girls tomorrow? And really, _what_ will Mum tell Great-Aunt Marjorie?

When Edmund falls asleep, he has terrible dreams of yelling boys and Mum's angry face. Later, he dreams of his father and runs towards him to tell him everything, but his father changes into Peter and Edmund stops, feeling Peter's disappointment. When he wakes, he can't remember much of what he dreamt, but the guilty feeling stays with him long into the morning. By lunchtime, he can't even look at Peter without hating him.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**I gave Peter the middle name of the king at the time he was born.**

**Hardsworth's Academy for Boys is a nod to Hartbee's School for Young Men, the name of the institution Peter and Edmund attend in Tonzura123's excellent story, PE. **

**Please review!**


	6. Lion's Shock

**And here I tip my hat to WillowDryad, who in her review commented that Peter would be so worried about Edmund going to the Experiment House. Oh, yes, worried indeed. See below :)  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

**Onward!  
**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Five: Lion's Shock **_

**London, January 20****th****, 1940**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

"_Dear Peter, _

"_How are you? Lucy and I are well. We got quite snowed in last week and classes were cancelled for a few days. Of course I was horrified and studied ahead in my texts to make up for it, but Lucy ran off to play outside. She didn't come back for hours, Peter, and when she did it was to dump a skirtful of snow in my lap! Imagine! I had to change and was late to tea. Honestly, I don't know what's gotten into her. Perhaps the weather is a bit much. I certainly don't know how to handle her. You ought to come visit for a day this weekend and talk to her. You might fare better than I, since she sees you less often._

"_I do hope you're well. I know Hardsworth's is notorious for post-holiday exams, and I hope you're sailing through them. On that note, I really can't thank you enough for your lovely Christmas present. __Jane Eyre__ has gotten me through many boring classes when I've finished pop quizzes early. _

"_Lucy says she has something she needs to show me, something about a troll in the igloo some girls built yesterday. You really must come talk to her, Peter, I don't know how much longer I can put up with this nonsense. She's so strange, our Lu._

"_So I'll finish quickly, since she's threatening another lapful of snow if I don't put on my mittens and hurry. Love from us both! Susan._

"_PS: Have you heard from Edmund? He's not answering any of my letters. I've enclosed what I think is his address…will you tell me if I have it copied down correctly? XOXO"_

Peter lets Susan's letter flutter onto his desk as he leans back in his chair and sighs. It's Friday, and he's to meet the girls on Saturday, having received permission from both Hardsworth's and Miss Carrigans's School for Proper Young Women to take them out for a day. He knows Susan is worried about Lucy, but he really doesn't see anything wrong with her daydreams. Of course there are no trolls, but there's no harm in playing along and pretending to see them for a while if it makes Lucy happy. And he loves seeing Lucy happy.

What distresses him more is Susan's postscript about Edmund. He has checked the address she wrote down alongside the one Mum gave him and they are exactly the same. He knows Mum wouldn't deliberately give them the wrong address. After all, she wants Edmund to do well in his new school, not feel like his family's abandoned him. But lately Peter is wondering if it isn't the other way around.

If he and Su have the same address for Eddy, then it must be correct. And if that's the case, then Edmund has certainly been getting their frequent letters. Peter knows he's been writing Edmund at least twice a week, sometimes more.

Edmund has not replied once. Peter thinks he's sulking, angry at being shut away. In return, he's shutting them out, which is ridiculous. Peter doesn't write Edmund for his own health, he writes because he wants to know if Edmund's alright.

Well, if he can't find out one way, he'll find out another. Infinitely glad he has all his classes in the mornings on Fridays, Peter carefully rewraps the sandwich he took from lunch. He'd filched an extra for an after-tea snack, but as it is roast beef, Edmund's favorite—and a rare find since rationing started—he hopes it will make an acceptable peace offering. Peter stands and tugs on his coat, dropping the sandwich into his pocket and then dropping his gloves in as well. He hurries out of his dorm and down to the administration office.

When he enters, Miss Parkins, Headmaster Dunham's secretary, looks up and positively beams with delight. "Mr. Pevensie, good day. Do you wish to see the Headmaster?"

Peter fiddles with the buttons on his coat. "Yes, please, ma'am. If it isn't too much trouble."

Miss Parkins smiles. "I'll just see if he's available." She knocks discreetly on the Headmaster's door before opening it and slipping inside. A few moments later she reappears and ushers Peter in with a final beam. Peter grins nervously back and walks the few steps to stand before Mr. Dunham, hearing the door click shut behind him.

The headmaster looks up from his newspaper and smiles as well. "Peter Pevensie, what a pleasure! Come, sit."

Peter bites his lip. "If it's alright, sir, I'd rather stand. I'm in a bit of a hurry."

Mr. Dunham frowns slightly, leaning forward in his leather chair. It squeals under his substantial weight. Peter wonders how much strain it can take. "A courtesy call then, Mr. Pevensie. What seems to be the problem?"

"Oh, no problem, sir," Peter assures him, "I would just like permission to visit my brother, Edmund, for a few hours. He's going to school at the Experiment House, just a train stop down the line. I can be there and back by supper."

Mr. Dunham comes remarkably close to scowling. Peter watches in fascination as he smooths his expression. He wonders where one can learn control like that. The headmaster leans back in his chair. It creaks dangerously, and Peter tenses. "Edmund Pevensie, your younger brother? He attended this school until very recently, yes?"

"Yes, sir." Peter replies slowly.

Looking thoughtful, Mr. Dunham asks, "He changed to the Experiment House, did he?"

"Yes, sir." Peter hates groveling, he really does, but he thinks it might be in order. "He's…troubled, sir, and my mother thought he might need more structure and attention than a large institution could give him. He fought it quite hard. Didn't want to leave, Mr. Dunham." Peter despises himself. He feels like he's betraying Edmund, giving the headmaster what he wants. Edmund's not troubled. He's not!

"I see. And what's your reason to visit your brother, Peter? Surely a letter is an able way to communicate, and as I recall, you're already taking tomorrow to visit your sisters at Miss Carrigan's." Mr. Dunham turns his chair idly, and it makes a high-pitched noise similar to a cat whose tail's been stepped on. He stops moving hastily.

Peter takes a deep breath before answering. He mustn't lose his temper with the headmaster. That will do him no good.

"Yes, sir. But Edmund's not answering my letters. I would just like to make sure he's alright." He crosses his fingers inside his coat pocket.

"And you're certain you can be back in time for supper, Peter?" Mr. Dunham looks at him seriously.

"I promise, sir! I'm certain." Peter can hardly believe his luck.

"I rarely make exceptions like these, Mr. Pevensie. It's only because you're such an excellent student and example in this school that I know I can trust you. Between you and me, you have the highest collective scores on any post-holiday exams we've ever given!" Mr. Dunham swells with pride. Peter smiles politely, but he's desperate to leave.

"Thank you, sir. I'm glad I'm doing well. Now if you don't mind, there's a train in a few minutes that I can catch if I leave now…" He's edging for the door.

"Say no more! I understand. I'll see you at supper, Mr. Pevensie. Have a good time! And say hello to Edmund for me!"

The Headmaster waves his hand in dismissal, and Peter is gone, flying down the hall and across the schoolyard, skidding over ice and clutching at trees planted beside the road. He clatters into the train station and checks the track listings. Darting between two plump matrons making their leisurely way to their platform, Peter ducks under the arm of a man holding open a door, trips down a flight of stairs and nearly falls onto the train just before the conductor climbs aboard. Apologizing profusely, Peter buys a ticket and stands impatiently in the doorway. As soon as the train slows at the next station and the doors slide open, Peter is off and running. He has the scrap of paper Mum wrote the address on clutched tight in his hand and sets off at a quick pace for the school. He only hopes he'll have good news to impart to the girls when he sees them the next morning.

When he reaches the Experiment House, Peter double checks the address, then triple checks. Then reads the paper a fourth time. This can't be a school, not really. It's some sort of joke.

But the small, dirty plaque on the gate reads "Experiment House est. 1872". Peter rattles the gate tentatively, but it's locked, as he supposes it will be. He looks around for a gatehouse or a guard to let him in, but doesn't see one. He sighs, staring up the icy path behind the bars to the dilapidated old building that serves as Edmund's school. Strands of ivy, brown from exposure to the winter, cling to the bricks of the structure, which is essentially a converted mansion, and not a terribly large one at that. The windows look dark and there's no smoke coming from either of the two chimneys at the ends of the building. Peter feels a growing sense of horror. Is Edmund really living in there?

A shrill whistle blast pierces the cold air. Peter follows the sound around the boundary of the campus to the back of the school, where there is a snow-covered field. A chilled wind blows down Peter's collar and he hunches his shoulders, squinting through the dust of unsettled snow at the figures moving on the field. Another piercing whistle blast and Peter has pressed himself against the bars of the fence, disbelieving. Are those…people walking outside? In this cold? Without coats?

The wind dies down, the snow settles, and Peter sees that the people walking in a large, slow circle on the field are, in fact, children. A man stands in the center of the circle. When he blows the whistle, the children change direction. Peter stares at the empty faces passing him by. Very few turn to look at him, but those that meet his gaze are defeated. They are pale and thin, all of them, lips blue and cracked. They all wear the same grey clothing. Peter can hardly tell the difference between the sexes except for occasionally longer hair on the girls. It seems everyone in the Experiment House wears pants.

A small child that Peter, with some difficulty, recognizes as a girl with a short brown bob sees Peter and pauses, mouth open in shock. Peter's heart wrenches. She looks like Lucy. "What are you doing out here?" Peter whispers to her. He doesn't know why he is whispering, only that it seems the right thing to do. The girl ducks her head and glances back at the man in the center, but he is facing away from the pair. Cautiously, she steps out of the circle of children, who close the gap behind her instantly. She stands before the fence awkwardly, tucking her hair behind her ears with trembling, bluish fingers. Instantly, Peter delves into his pockets and pulls out the gloves Susan knit him for Christmas. He pushes them through the bars and the girl eyes them warily. "Go on," Peter encourages, "take them."

She darts forward and snatches the gloves, pulling them on hastily. The fingers flop far over the length of her hands, but she doesn't seem to notice. She looks back at Peter and smiles shyly. "Exercise."

He's taken aback. "What?"

"We're exercising. We must be outside for half an hour every day. It's good for our consti-constitution." She stumbles over the word and blushes faintly. Peter swells in fury.

"But it's cold!"

She shrugs, looking over her shoulder at the man again. "They don't care."

Peter is shaking. It could be the cold, but he's certain this trembling is from rage. The treatment of these children is entirely unfair. It's like torture! And Eddy-!

Peter feels like someone has dumped snow down his back. Edmund is fragile. He gets sick so easily. And out in this cold without any protection…he leans forward urgently, the bars of the fence digging into his chapped palms. "Is there a boy named Edmund out here?"

The girl shrugs again. "Probably. Everyone's out here. I don't know an Edmund, though."

"He's my brother. Please, could you try to find him? Pale, dark eyes and hair. Maybe a bit taller than you." Peter's heart has lodged heavily in his stomach, churning in his gut. It's not a pleasant feeling.

The girl considers, then nods. "I'll try."

Peter closes his eyes in relief. "Thank you."

When he opens his eyes again, the girl is gone, melted back into the steady parade of half-frozen children. He waits anxiously, searching for her in the crowd, but he can't find her. He doesn't know how much longer the children will be outside. If they leave and he hasn't seen Edmund…well, he's considering jumping the fence.

"Peter?" Uttering a relieved gasp, Peter turns toward the welcome sound.

"Edmund!"

And there he is, looking confused and cross and freezing cold. His little brother. Peter smacks his head against the bars in his rush to get close to him, and when he blinks his vision clear, Edmund is much nearer. He stares at Peter, uncertain. "What—what are you doing here, Peter?" His teeth chatter.

Peter forces his arm through the bars and grabs Edmund's wrist. He yanks him over, alarmed at how easy it is. Edmund may be small, but he can dig in his heels if he wants to. And yet he doesn't. When Peter tugs him in for a hug, he's shocked when Edmund doesn't resist. Edmund's fought him on hugs in public—and private—since he was about six. "Eddy, you're so thin!"

Edmund looks up at him with some difficulty. "What are you doing here?" he asks again, as if it's the most important question in the world.

Peter frowns. "I came to see you. You haven't answered my or the girls' letters. We wanted to make sure you were alright."

Edmund looks shocked. "You wrote me?"

"You mean you haven't been getting them?" Peter asks in astonishment. "I've been writing you every week!" He brushes Eddy's hair back from his forehead. Edmund closes his eyes and leans against him.

"No, I've only been getting Mum's. And they make me write such short answers. Peter, can I come back to Hardsworth's? I'll be good, I promise!"

Peter's breath catches in his throat. "I can't take you out of here, Eddy. But I'm going to write Mum and tell her about this. She won't want you staying here. You'll get sick."

"I'm fine!" Edmund jerks away from Peter's embrace, but the quick action makes him double over with a deep cough.

"Edmund!" Peter reaches for him helplessly. He's unbuttoning his coat and pushing it through the bars without quite realizing his motions. Edmund's hand shoots out and catches his arm. Peter winces at the heat he can feel through his shirtsleeve. His brother is burning with fever.

"Don't. You need it. Besides, they'll take it away. We can only wear our uniforms outside." Edmund manages to stand up straight, not meeting Peter's eyes. He doesn't look at Peter at all actually, refusing to move close to him again. Reluctantly, Peter shrugs back into his coat.

"I'll get you out of here, Edmund. I promise." He says, and Edmund's mouth twists into a smirk. It looks unnatural on his face. He shakes his head.

"Mum thinks it's good for me here. You should see her letters. 'Oh, Eddy, the headmaster writes that you're doing so well!'" He imitates a voice so much higher than his own that Peter can only assume it's meant to be their Mum's.

"Are you doing well?" Peter asks in spite of himself. Edmund scowls.

"I dunno. They teach weird things here; not real lessons. Nothing makes sense. I make up answers and they seem to like that alright. I guess I'll keep doing that until you get me out."

Three whistle blasts leave Peter holding his ears. Edmund seems unaffected by the shrillness of the sound, but he glances back uncomfortably. "That's the call to go in. I have to leave." He takes a step back, and Peter feels his heart breaking.

"Get some rest," he pleads, "Don't get sick!"

"And brush my teeth and comb my hair and say my prayers, yes, Peter, I know!" Edmund wipes his nose on his sleeve and takes another step back. He glowers, irritated.

"Wait!" Peter cries, "That girl who has my gloves. What's her name?"

Edmund purses his lips. "I dunno. Jane Poole or Jill Pole or something. Why?"

"Thank her for me, will you?" It is imperative to Peter that this girl—Jane, Jill, whoever—knows she matters. That she is being thought about.

"And the gloves?" Edmund asks tonelessly.

"She can keep them." Something shutters behind Edmund's eyes when Peter says that. He turns away.

"I'll see you soon," Peter calls after him. Edmund scoffs, then stifles another cough. Peter hears the wet rattle of his brother's lungs and his own ache in sympathy.

Peter watches him jog across the field and finally starts to walk away. He doesn't know what to do except write to Mum and beg her to put Edmund back in Hardsworth's. If she knew what the Experiment House was doing, surely she wouldn't put him there!

And what will he tell the girls tomorrow? The truth, he decides, but lightened a bit for Lucy's sake. He knows they will be appalled. Perhaps if the three of them write Mum all at once, she'll take them seriously.

It had been wonderful to hug Edmund, he thinks happily. To talk to his brother again without fighting. He's felt like Edmund has been out of reach for a while. Now maybe he's getting him back. Then again, the look on Edmund's face at the end of their meeting had not been promising. Maybe he's just desperate for contact.

Peter shoves his hands into his pockets, scowling and looking remarkably like Edmund on his worst days. Then he stops short, his face draining of color.

He'd forgotten to give Edmund the sandwich.

On Saturday, Peter tells the girls what he has seen of the Experiment House, and what it's doing to Edmund. Lucy is supportive at once, demanding paper to write Mum immediately. Peter feels a surge of gratitude for his excitable little sister. Susan, however, dismisses everything. Surely they were only outside for a few minutes, and no administration would send children out without their coats. Edmund must have forgotten his and lied about it. She refuses to write Mum and Peter knows that if he can't get Susan on his side, Lucy won't be able to get a letter sent out. That night, he sits down and writes Mum himself.

Mum's reply arrives a few days later. She assures Peter that he is mistaken about the Experiment House and she has heard such wonderful things about Edmund from there. It would seem, she remarks frostily, that Peter has a tendency to bring out Edmund's bad habits, so would he mind terribly not visiting him again? And would he please not upset the girls with such wild tales? Susan is up half the night with Lucy, who's having terrible dreams about Edmund's "deteriorating" health.

This letter falls to the desk as well. Peter is in shock. He can't even tell Edmund that he tried, because his letters won't get through. And Peter isn't one to disobey a direct order. If Mum says not to visit Edmund, well, maybe she's right. Maybe he was wrong with what he saw, and Edmund was lying. When was the last time Edmund was truthful anyway?

Feeling nauseous, Peter runs to the bathroom and vomits. When he emerges, he feels even sicker and collapses on his bed with a low moan.

He can try to fool himself, but it won't work.

He has failed Edmund utterly.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**I took some liberties in putting Edmund at the Experiment House. As far as I know, he never attended there. But it fit the story better for him to go to a separate school so that Peter couldn't protect him anymore. I also thought it'd be an interesting twist for Edmund to be so close to Jill and not realize. At this point, I've decided Eustace hasn't arrived there yet. Source for Experiment House information: ****narnia . wikia . com **/ Experiment _ House

**Source for a 1940 calendar: www . timeanddate calendar / ? year = 1940 & country = 9**

**Please review!**


	7. Fox's Void

**Hi, all. Here's your next installment-on time for once! **

**I do have one request, however. I can see on my profile that this story has 12 people officially Following it, to say nothing of those who just bookmark it and pop in. I only received 2 reviews on my last chapter, though. So I am requesting 5 REVIEWS ON THIS CHAPTER BEFORE I NEXT UPDATE, OR I WILL WAIT TO UPDATE, because I'm selfish and want your comments. If you like this story, review to save it. Thank you.  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Six: Fox's Void**_

**London, February 8****th****, 1940 **

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Edmund is drowning. He can't move his arms or legs. He cannot turn his head from where it is forcefully pressed against the stained porcelain with water rushing over it. His lungs are burning; he is struggling. There is an all-too-familiar roaring in his ears. His scalp screams as the hair is sucked away from the skin, trying to break free of its roots. Desperately, Edmund arches his back and writhes against the hands of his captors. To his surprise and relief, they release him. He falls backward onto the cool tiles and gasps for air.

"Would you jus' look a' 'im? Pathetic, he is."

"Like a fish wot's been brought up on the beach."

"Hey, so he is! How'd you like your bath, fishie?"

"S'wot's you get, bein' right cheeky like you are."

"Disrespectful."

"S'right! Disrespectful. And disgraceful."

"Disregardin'!"

"Disresentful!"

"Wotchu talkin' 'bout, Gunnar? Disresentful's not a soddin' word."

"Shove off, Bryan! If I says disresentful's a word, it is. My father knows. Wot you gonna do 'bout that, eh?"

"Lord, here they goes again. Do somethin' would you, Reggie?"

"Well, Al, if you insist. Gentlemen," Edmund twitches his hand out of Reggie's path as he steps between Gunnar and Bryan, who are close to trading blows. "Might we save this argument for later? Class starts in a few minutes and we need to discard our evidence."

Edmund shivers.

"Evidence?" Gunnar asks. He scratches his head. "You suggestin' we kill off Pevensie here?"

Edmund bolts upright, only to be shoved back to the floor by Albert's boot. Reggie smiles and shakes his head. "Of course not. We need to change clothes. Can't go to class drenched in toilet water, can we?"

This is true. In his struggling, Edmund has managed to get his tormentors thoroughly soaked. Despite having difficulty breathing with Albert's boot on his chest, Edmund swells with a bit of pride.

"Damn, lookit me shirt! It's soaked! You little piece of—" Bryan starts for Edmund, who finds a sudden surge of strength in his renewed terror. Thrusting Albert away, he crawls out of the bathroom stall. Pressing shaking palms to the tiles, he staggers to his feet. Bryan bellows another curse, but even as he steps forward, Reggie puts out his hand and stops him. He is looking at Edmund in a way that makes him shudder. It is a very considering look.

"There's still some fight in you yet, Pevensie?" he questions, a slight smile playing across his lips.

Edmund smirks. "Always, O'Toole," he spits, and takes a wary step back when Reggie laughs.

"I like you, Pevensie. I like your spark. It's strange; you could do so well here. What are you doing getting your head stuck in toilets?"

"I should be asking you that," Edmund snarls, tightening his fists. Reggie holds up his hands, placating. He uses his hands a lot, Edmund notes. He'd like to break them.

The thought is so violent that it shocks him. He loses focus. Edmund startles when Reggie's unbroken hand drops onto his shoulder and the bully speaks softly into his ear.

"If you ever feel like changing your station in this hellhole, Pevensie," he murmurs, his breath tickling Edmund's ear, "you come and find me."

Edmund doesn't move until the boys have vacated the bathroom. When they've gone, he sinks to the floor and drops his head to his knees. Then he sneezes. Twice. Bother. He's just gotten over that cold from January, when Peter visited him.

Oh, Peter. If his brother could see him now, he'd be furious. He'd beat O'Toole and his cronies up for sure. And Edmund would help, of course. Then Susan would come rushing over to fuss and Lucy would look at them so admiringly. Mum's scolding would be worth it. And Dad—

Edmund digs his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. It doesn't matter what Dad would do. He's probably dead. And it doesn't matter what Mum would say because she'd just stick him back in the Experiment House afterwards. And Susan and Lucy wouldn't be proud; they'd be horrified by his fighting.

And Peter...Peter wouldn't help him fight. Peter wouldn't help him at all. He never does. Peter makes promises and breaks them and leaves him all alone.

Stifling another sneeze, Edmund stands. He scrubs at his face, looks in the mirror, and gives it up as a bad job. Slipping out of the bathroom, Edmund sneaks back to his dorm, only relaxing when the door shuts behind him. He flings himself on his bed and prepares for a storm of crying, like after every other time he's been attacked at school.

It doesn't come.

Edmund lies dry-eyed and empty-feeling. Empty. That's not so bad. Less painful, at any rate. Rising, he changes his uniform and gathers his books for class. He glances at the clock and sighs. He's half an hour late. What does it matter if he goes or not? It's better to just to not go this time.

He waits for the flood of panic and guilt that would normally accompany the idea of skiving off class.

It doesn't come.

He just feels empty.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Please review!**


	8. Lion's Recollection

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! I was amazed by your comments. They were wonderful to read. Please keep it up, and remember that the five review policy remains. To those of you who don't have accounts, I have posted your replies below.  
**

**Guest: Thank you so much! You will have more on Friday :)  
**

**pineapple101: Only Peter knows what's truly happening at the Experiment House. The other Pevensies won't believe or are powerless to stop it. Edmund's on his own. Thank you for reviewing!  
**

**dogluver: My goal in life is to hug Edmund ;) Thanks so much for reviewing!  
**

**narniagirlfan: Yep, Edmund's in a pretty sorry state. You'll have a new chapter on Friday. Thanks for reviewing!  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Seven: Lion's Recollection**_

**London, March 5****th****, 1940 **

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

"_Peter, Peter! Play?" Peter looks up from his schoolwork and down at his youngest sister, shaking his head. _

"_Sorry, Lu. I can't. I have to finish this reading for Miss Crowther tomorrow. Why don't you ask Susan?"_

_Lucy, cherub-like in all of her three-year-old glory, visibly deflates. "Susan won't. Only with you."_

"_Only if I join in?" Peter clarifies, heart sinking._

_Lucy's lower lip trembles dangerously. She nods. Desperate to avoid the impending tears, Peter slides his assignment into his book and stands. He holds out his hand to his sister, who takes it immediately, bouncing up and down. "Play?" she asks, "Princess and Dragon?"_

_Peter stifles a groan. "Yes, Lu, I'll play Princess and Dragon. Let's go find Su and Eddy, shall we?"_

"_Eddy!" Lucy squeals, and runs outside. Peter tugs on his shoes and follows, watching amusedly as Lucy babbles brightly to a tree. Only she isn't talking to the tree, he realizes, but to Edmund, sitting up in its branches and looking grumpy._

"_I don't want to play today, Lu," he calls down, "I'm busy, see?" He holds up a sketchpad. Peter catches a glimpse of a rough-looking squirrel. "Why don't you go find—oh, hullo, Pete." Edmund smiles uneasily down at Peter, who grins back broadly._

"_Hullo, Eddy. Join in, will you? It's Princess and Dragon, your favorite."_

_Edmund rolls his eyes. "Princess and Dragon again? We've played that a hundred times."_

"_Two hundred and sixty-two times, actually." Peter turns to see Susan walking across the grass towards them. She frowns up at Edmund, eyeing the tree. "Get down from there, Edmund. You know Mum doesn't think it's stable."_

_Edmund shrugs. "Dad says it's fine."_

"_But Mum—"_

"_I don't really care what Mum thinks, Su, Dad says—"_

"_Play?" Lucy whines, "Play?"_

_They all stare at her for a moment. She sniffs, eyes reddening, and they scramble into action. "Of course, Lucy, don't cry, dear," Susan begs, pulling her into a tight hug. Peter glares at Edmund until he slides down the trunk of the maple. _

"_Fine, I'll play," he agrees, "but can it be a new game?"_

"_I don't think—" Peter starts, but Lucy looks up, beaming._

"_New?"_

_Edmund seizes his moment. "How about The Evil Lord and the Good Princess?" he offers, "I, evil Lord Edmund, shall kidnap Princess Lucy, daughter of brave King Peter and lovely Queen Susan."_

"_And I shall weep endlessly for the loss of my daughter, the future Queen of Susandia, and send out my brave husband to save her!" Susan adds. Lucy nods, giggling._

"_Susandia?" Peter can't help asking, "Is this your kingdom then, Su?"_

"_Of course not," she answers breezily, "it's my queendom. You're __my loyal knight and, if I'm feeling generous, king." She sets off across the yard. "Come, Princess Lucy," she calls over her shoulder, "let's go get dresses!"_

"_Dresses!" Lucy excitedly trots after her sister. "Pink?"_

"_What sort of princess wouldn't wear pink?"_

_This is moving rather fast for Peter. "But as king, Su, shouldn't I rule?" he asks desperately._

_Susan stops and turns gracefully to face him, her smile demure and as close to genuine as one could be in the 'public eye'. She's acting like Queen Consort Elizabeth in her manner, Peter notices. She's taking this queen business awfully seriously. "Not in Susandia," she speaks slowly, as if he's stupid. "In Susandia, women rule."_

_He can't find a way to argue with that before she has swept into the house, taking Lucy with her. He stares after them in disbelief. Smirking, Edmund comes to his side. "Better luck next time, Pete." Peter sighs._

"_Maybe I should team up with you and be evil too. The weak husband switching sides? That would show her up nicely, wouldn't it?" He turns to grin at Edmund again, but the smile fades. Edmund's looking at him very seriously and shaking his head. "No?" Peter asks, confused. "Why not?"_

"_You're not allowed to be evil, Pete, only I am. You couldn't do it properly." Edmund starts for the shed to pull out the cricket bats they use as swords._

"_You think you could be evil better than me?" Peter is bemused. What would Edmund know about being evil, any more than he, Peter, would? But Edmund hands him the larger cricket bat and nods._

_Thrown off by the steady gaze of his younger brother and how uncomfortable it makes him feel, Peter blurts, "Why would you want to be evil anyway?" Edmund looks away, eyes unfocused. In the pause while Peter waits for an answer, a breeze rifles the leaves of the supposedly unsteady maple tree and tosses strands of hair into his vision. He has shaken himself back into order before Edmund speaks._

"_It's more interesting than being good," he says finally, before going to scope out a proper prison for Princess Lucy's captivity._

_Long after Sir Peter has comforted the hysterical Queen Susan and has vowed to save their daughter, long after he has located the princess's prison and confronted the evil lord holding her there, long after they have fought a long and violent battle over the princess, and long after Lord Edmund has died a spectacular and gruesome death, Peter is still bothered by his brother's words. More interesting to be evil than to be good? He can't understand how that's possible. Why would anyone choose to be evil and hurt people? He wonders if he should mention this to Mum, but decides it's not worth it. Edmund was probably trying to rattle him so that he might lose the battle for Princess Lucy. _

_And Edmund had gotten in a few more whacks with the cricket bat than he normally would have, Peter acknowledges. Perhaps his little brother's tactic worked. _

_Maybe that's all he means by evil, Peter muses. Being clever and working people's weaknesses. After all, at only five, Edmund doesn't have a huge vocabulary. He might not know the difference between evil and clever. It is hard for Peter to understand, even at eight years old. He'll leave it be. _

Peter wakes in a cold sweat, panting. He barely remembers their one time playing The Evil Lord and the Good Princess. The next time Lucy had asked to play that game, he'd put his foot down. Peter was subservient to no one except Mum and Dad, and particularly not to Susan. To dream of that time with such clarity sets him on edge.

He has half-decided to go and visit Edmund again when he remembers his mother's order forbidding it. He stands with his galoshes in hand, torn. Then, regretfully, he slides the boots back under his bed. He has History today and a test he can't skip. Besides, Mum hasn't said anything about Edmund's behavior worsening in the past few months. Perhaps everything is working out.

Suppressing a heavy sigh, Peter shoves his feet into his shoes and winces as his toes crush against the leather. He's grown again. He limps out of the dorm, answering Billy Hughes's call with a light wave and wondering if he dares write home for new footwear. They likely don't have the rations for it and he doesn't want to worry Mum unnecessarily.

Consumed with this new conundrum, Peter forgets about Edmund entirely and hurries to class.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Source for characteristics of the Pevensies: pbs parents / childdevelopmenttracker / five / index . html**

**Please review!**


	9. Fox's Slide

**Thank you again to everyone who reviewed! You know it means the world to me. The five-review policy still stands, so drop me a line :) To those of you without accounts, I have replied below.  
**

**Guest: Thank you! I'm glad you liked it :)  
**

**dogluver: Thank you! I always want to hug Edmund :P Why should that change?  
**

**narniagirlfan: Don't worry, Peter will never forget about Edmund. He loves him too much. Brothers look out for each other, whether Edmund realizes it or not!  
**

**pineapple101: I'm glad you liked this chapter, and thank you for the compliment! You give me the warm fuzzies :)  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Eight: Fox's Slide **_

**London, April 3****rd****, 1940 **

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Edmund is aware that he hasn't been quite right lately. He's been rather off, in fact, and he's not sure why. Not that he cares overly much. It wouldn't even be a concern if his distraction was escaping notice, but his classmates are more observant than he has given them credit for, and he'd give quite a bit to be unnoticeable again. It just doesn't seem to be in his control.

It's rather confusing.

All Edmund's ever done at the Experiment House is to try and keep a low profile: do the work, get to class on time, and keep out of fights. True, there's been the occasional torment like the Toilet Incident two months ago, but those attacks are few and far between. Gunnar and Bryan keep away from him now. Edmund knows it's because Reggie tells them to.

This is also confusing.

He doesn't understand why Reggie has taken an interest in him. Edmund catches his enemy watching him during Chemistry and during Exercise, the only classes they have together. The constant surveillance and sly grin when their eyes meet usually trips Edmund up in some way or another, and by the time he's righted himself, Reggie's attention is elsewhere. Edmund can't find the courage to ask him about it, either.

"Watch yourself, Pevensie, that's not water!" A hand catches his wrist and Edmund freezes, startled. He turns with bated breath to face Reggie and waits for acid to be thrown in his face or his burner to be shut off. Nothing of the sort occurs. Instead, Reggie, flanked by Albert, prevents him from dumping a test tube of clear liquid into a beaker.

Edmund swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry, and forces himself to meet Reggie's eyes. Hoping this will stay quiet, Edmund rasps, "O'Toole?"

Reggie unleashes that sly smile and releases Edmund's wrist. He points to the tube. "You're holding ammonia, Pevensie. Smell it."

Frowning suspiciously, Edmund raises the glass to his nostrils. He inhales the sharp scent of ammonia and draws back in alarm. He has almost destroyed his entire experiment. If Reggie hadn't caught him, he'd be failing today's class, which would have led to a call home to Mum, a talk with the headmaster, and all the bureaucratic procedures that he would really like to avoid.

Setting the ammonia back on the lab table, Edmund takes the test tube offered by Reggie. For good measure, he sniffs that one too, but it's truly odorless water. As he turns back to his burner to add the liquid, Reggie smiles again. Edmund's skin crawls. "What do you say for that favor, Pevensie?" Reggie murmurs. Behind him, Albert snickers, and Edmund feels his face heat.

"Thank you, O'Toole," he grinds out. Reggie claps him on the shoulder.

"A pleasure, Pevensie. Glad to be of service." With the air of a satisfied cat, Reggie sidles away, and Edmund returns to his musings.

Even with the minor humiliation involved, Reggie is clearly interested in helping Edmund out. Why is that? It certainly isn't because of those patriotic messages being played during the announcements in school every day that tell them to look out for each other during this Difficult Time. It certainly isn't because Reggie is in any way scared of him. So then, what does Reggie want that Edmund has?

It is incredibly confusing.

Edmund resents how much time is occupied considering Reggie's angle. Consequently, when he overheats his experiment, burns the combined liquids in the beaker, and sets his lab assignment on fire, he is shocked, then embarrassed, then furious. He should have paid better attention.

At that moment, the bell shrills to change classes. Edmund shoves his charred papers in his bag and makes for the door.

"Mr. Pevensie! A word, if you please." Edmund rolls his eyes and turns, stepping out of the crowd of students headed for either Rhetoric or Maths. A few catch his eye and look sympathetic, but he ignores them. He doesn't need their pity. He can deal with Fitz on his own.

Professor Fitzhugh is well-known at the Experiment House for being the only teacher, aside from the overly enthusiastic Exercise Coach Chyzowych, to take his job seriously. A sloppy lab report does not get a do-over, only a failing grade. An inaccurately measured ingredient is cause for an essay on the importance of exactness in science. Gerry Pinnett has written that one six times, by Edmund's count.

Botching an entire experiment, however, is a whole new type of failure. Edmund nears Fitz's desk, scuffing his feet along the floor. His shoes pinch, and he makes a mental note to write Mum for a new pair. Even Peter's old ones would be better. Not likely she'll send them to her least favorite, failure of a son though…

"Mr. Pevensie, look up. I'm not on the ground, am I?"

"No, sir." Reluctantly, Edmund lifts his head. Fitz is glaring at him, red-faced, hair sticking up in clumps. When Edmund set his papers on fire, Fitz had yanked at the graying strands in frustration, pulling out a sizeable clump. His spectacles are sliding down his nose in increments, and he doesn't appear to notice. Edmund swallows. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Pevensie. Would you care to explain your appalling performance in today's class?" Fitz's spectacles slid a bit further in his fury, wobbling on the bump in the center of his nose. Edmund tears his eyes away with difficulty.

"I was distracted, sir."

Fitz's eyebrows contract sharply. "Distracted."

Edmund wonders if that is a question. "Yes, sir."

"By what, Mr. Pevensie? A girl?"

Edmund goes scarlet. "No, sir."

"Homework you haven't turned in?" Fitz appears to be ticking off a list in his head. Edmund bites his lip.

"No, sir."

"Family matters?"

"…No, sir."

"I see." Fitz stares down at his entwined fingers and Edmund holds his breath. "Will you answer a question for me, Mr. Pevensie?"

Edmund is puzzled. Isn't that what he's been doing? "Yes, sir?"

Fitz's shoulders are shaking and for a wild moment Edmund thinks he's crying, before his professor slowly rises to his full height, slams his hands down on his desk and bellows, "Then, why, if you were so utterly unconcerned with other matters, are you incapable of giving my class the ATTENTION IT DESERVES?"

Edmund steps back, lips moving soundlessly. He cannot find words.

"Don't you walk away from me, Mr. Pevensie! Don't think I haven't noticed your behavior and your poor grades. Don't think you can excuse it through 'distraction'!" Fitz makes quotes in the air, striding around his desk towards Edmund. He staggers back further in alarm.

"Professor-"

"I don't care what you have to say, Mr. Pevensie. Frankly, I don't give a damn if you fail out of my class or this school due to your apparent stupidity! But I do care if you disrespect my subject to the extent that you cannot complete a simple heating of two liquids without setting the experiment AFLAME!"

Edmund feels another rush of shame and anger, returning after its cowardly dash for safety in the face of Fitz's rage. He does not rise, he will not rise. He is not Peter; he doesn't let this sort of thing rile him. "Sir-" he tries, but his professor continues on.

"Perhaps you weren't raised to appreciate the scientific arts, Mr. Pevensie. Not many people are. But to come into a place where science is clearly sacred and desecrate my life's work goes beyond my compassion. I cannot tolerate such blatant idiocy.

"Tell me, Mr. Pevensie, did anyone try to instill intelligence in you as a child? Did your mother ever teach you to be careful, cautious, and polite? I have heard lovely things about your mother from the headmaster here; I'm sure she tried." Fitz is getting into a rhythm now. He has been waiting for this moment for far too long; to have it out with the poorest student in his class.

"Did your brother teach you to work at your studies? He's at Hardsworth's, I believe, an excellent school; so surely he tried. It must have been someone else who couldn't get through to you then.

"I would hypothesize, Mr. Pevensie," and here Fitz, having backed Edmund into a corner of the room, leans down to loom just above him, "I would conjecture that you received your poor training from your good-for-nothing _father_ who simply couldn't be bothered to train his son. He's in the army now, isn't he? Serving there's probably all he's good for. Maybe he'll get blown up and do the world a favor-"

With all the pent-up rage he possesses, Edmund hits him.

Hours later, sitting in the dimly lit detention hall well past the end of supper, he can't bring himself to regret it. Even if he is expelled for pounding Fitz's nose in and shattering his spectacles, he won't apologize. Edmund eyes the blood on his knuckles with satisfaction. Serves the git right.

"Oi, Pevensie."

He doesn't believe it.

"Pst, Pevensie! Over here!" Edmund's gaze flies to the darkened window. A pale hand waves. Edmund recognizes it. He glances at the detention monitor, who has his head down on the desk at the front of the room. Conveniently, the man starts to snore. Assured of safety, Edmund stands and tiptoes to the window. He eases it open, freezing when it squeaks. Another glance shows the monitor still asleep, and he pushes the glass the rest of the way ajar.

Reggie is standing outside the window, alone. Edmund looks around in surprise, but Albert is nowhere to be found. He frowns, confused. "What do you want, O'Toole?"

"Me? Nothing. I just thought you might be hungry. I brought you dinner." Reggie holds up a bundle wrapped in a napkin. The scent of fish rises to Edmund's nostrils, and his stomach rumbles.

"Why?" he asks, wrenching his eyes from the package. Reggie smiles patronizingly.

"Well, you did miss supper. But I can take it back to my room if you want…" He starts to leave.

"No, wait!" Edmund flushes at the desperation in his voice. Reggie turns back, expressionless.

"I-thanks, O'Toole." Reggie smiles, appeased, and hands him the bundle.

"A pleasure, Pevensie." He watches Edmund tear into the fish for a moment, then asks, "Care to have a chat?"

"About what?" Edmund asks with difficulty around a mouthful. He coughs, and Reggie passes him a canteen of water, which he swigs at gratefully.

"My proposition."

Edmund sets the canteen carefully on the windowsill, wary. "You mean the suggestion you made after you'd stuck my head in a toilet?"

"I prefer to think of it as a gift I extended to you—much like your supper tonight—after I realized your potential." Reggie folds his fingers together calmly, looking disinterested.

"Yeah, well, the answer's no, O'Toole. I'm likely to be expelled in the morning, so it makes no sense for me to strike up any sort of business with you." Edmund is no longer hungry. He shoves the fish aside.

"I wouldn't be so certain of that, Pevensie. My father has some clout in the administration here, you know. If I were to tell him one of my friends was being unfairly treated, I'm sure he'd want to help rectify that situation." O'Toole examines his fingernails in the dim light. Even with a shadow on his face, Edmund can see his smile has returned.

"You'd do that for me?" he can't help asking. Hastily, he amends his question. "Why?"

O'Toole shrugs. "I admire your spirit, Pevensie, and your loyalty. And, honestly, none of my friends are quite all there, you know what I mean? Al tries his best, but so far as I can tell, you're really the only person I would consider my near-equal in this place."

Edmund stifles a laugh. Him, equal to O'Toole? O'Toole doesn't have half his brains. But he does, Edmund acknowledges, have connections. Useful ones. "If I were to consider this deal," he begins idly, leaning against the windowsill, "what would be in it for me?"

"Immunity." Reggie looks up now, gazes at him steadily. Edmund shifts uncomfortably.

"From what?" he can't help asking. The words fall from his mouth unrestrained.

"Everything. Expulsion, bad grades, reports home, all the things that get your mother involved with your life. I know you don't like her having to come down here." Reggie speaks kindly, and Edmund winces.

"I don't like upsetting her so much," he admits quietly, the burn of shame overwhelming any reservations he has about confiding in O'Toole.

"And you don't have to. Take my offer, and I promise she'll hear nothing but glowing reports forever more." Reggie has leaned forward in his intensity, and Edmund finds himself moving nearer in response, half-hanging out the window.

"Good enough to get me back to Hardsworth's?" he breathes.

Reggie scoffs. "Hardsworth's? Honestly, Pevensie, we could get you into Eton in a few years."

Edmund forgets to breathe.

"Just join up with me. Walk around with my friends. You'll see things change. _You'll_ change. And I promise, Pevensie, you'll like what you become." Reggie is grinning now, a warm and welcoming grin. Edmund feels the corners of his lips twitch upwards. "We could even bring that brother of yours along, what's his name, Peter? If you'd like him to go to Eton, too."

Edmund chuckles. "Only if he asks nicely." The thought of Peter down on one knee begging to tag along with Edmund to a prestigious boys' school is wonderfully cheering.

Reggie laughs and pulls another wrapped package from his pocket. "Here."

Edmund takes it, unwraps the paper and stares down at the white-dusted cube in his hand. "O'Toole, what's this? Covered in…sugar?" His mouth waters just saying the word.

O'Toole laughs again. "It's Turkish Delight, Edmund. To sweeten the deal. Go on, try it."

Hesitantly, vestiges of caution still clinging to his actions, Edmund brings the treat to his lips. Carefully, he slips it in his mouth, and closes his eyes as the saccharine flavor washes over his tongue. He's never tasted anything so delicious.

"O'Toole, this is amazing!" he gasps, reservations gone.

"I have loads more in my room. Stop by when you're done here and I'll pack some for you. You'll sit with us at breakfast tomorrow?" Edmund nods, too busy savoring the Turkish Delight to speak. Reggie turns to leave. "Oh, Edmund?" He turns back, a wry smile on his face. "You can call me Reggie. And you have sugar on your chin."

Edmund blushes and wipes his face. "Thanks…Reggie."

"My pleasure. See you later, then."

"See you."

Edmund slips back into his seat just as the detention monitor wakes. He jerks up with a snort, eyes the clock balefully, and announces Edmund's free to go. As the elderly man passes, he stops at the open window. Edmund's heart skips a beat, but the monitor mutters about the violent wind and closes it before walking out. After a moment, Edmund follows, trying to suppress a smile. He's fairly certain he's just had an experience that will change his life thanks to, of all people, Reggie O'Toole.

And that Turkish Delight is fantastic. Who knew such things were still made; what with sugar rationed and all?

Grinning to himself, Edmund heads to Reggie's room. He'll just pop in for a few pieces, and then it's off to bed. After all, he has school tomorrow.

**My version of how Edmund got hooked on Turkish Delight. Oh yes, I went there.**

**Source for Turkish Delight: en . wikipedia wiki / Turkish _ delight**

**Please review!**


	10. Lion's Spiral

**Hello, all! Happy Friday, and here's your next installment. The five-review requirement still applies. Y'all have been giving me wonderful ideas for further chapters/one-shots, as well as your opinions on what's already been written, so keep 'em coming!  
**

**Guest (9/14 review): I'm glad you liked it. Thanks for reviewing!  
**

**dogluver: Haha I loved working the Turkish Delight in :)  
**

**narniagirlfan: Do they even make Turkish Delight anymore? Who eats it?  
**

**pineapple101: He ate it. World ends. Sorry. :P  
**

**Guest (9/19 review): Yep, O'Toole is very clever slime. I like writing him. Fitz is realistic? Dear Lord, I thought him an utter caricature. How alarming. I'm so sorry that you had such a crazy science teacher! But I'm glad that my OC's are realistic...I think.  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

**Onward!  
**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Nine: Lion's Spiral**_

**London, May 19****th****, 1940 **

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

_**Warning: Strong language and graphic images follow in this chapter—rather more graphic than I've done.**_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

"I speak to you for the first time as Prime Minister in a solemn hour for the life of our country, of our empire, of our allies, and, above all, of the cause of Freedom. A tremendous battle is raging in France and Flanders. The Germans, by a remarkable combination of air bombing and heavily armored tanks, have broken through the French defenses north of the Maginot Line, and strong columns of their armored vehicles are ravaging the open country…"

Peter leans heavily against the cool wall outside the faculty break room, trying to quiet his breathing. He listens intently, tipping his ear towards the open door. If only his heart would stop pounding! It thuds in his ears, a frantic staccato of rushed beats. He is afraid, but represses this fear, this primal urge to run. He is ensnared by the slightly blurred voice he hears, pinned by its seriousness.

"…We must not allow ourselves to be intimidated by the presence of these armored vehicles in unexpected places behind our lines. If they are behind our Front, the French are also at many points fighting actively behind theirs…"

"Am I late?"

Peter jolts and whirls about, biting back a cry of alarm. Jack Curtis has slipped up behind him, as eager as he to hear the voice wafting into the hallway. Peter gestures towards the half-open door and then brings a finger to his lips. Quiet. Jack rolls his eyes but obeys, crouching next to Peter and bracing himself on his knuckles.

"…the French retain that genius for recovery and counter-attack for which they have so long been famous; and if the British Army shows the dogged endurance and solid fighting power of which there have been so many examples in the past-then a sudden transformation of the scene might spring into being."

Peter frowns and glances at Jack, who also looks unnerved. Might? Where is the full, hearty confidence that the Germans will stand down? Where is the bold declaration that the soldiers will shortly be home? Won't this war soon end?

Shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, Peter tiptoes forward and cranes his neck to look through the doorway. The teachers in the break room are silent, unmoving. Some stand by the teapot, but the kettle is untouched on the stove. All heads are turned towards the radio, to the sounds emanating from the wooden box with its wire screen. Lucy could fit inside that radio, Peter thinks distantly. She is so small and it is so big.

Prime Minister Churchill resumes speaking. "…It would be foolish, however, to disguise the gravity of the hour. It would be still more foolish to lose heart and courage or to suppose that well-trained, well-equipped armies numbering three or four millions of men can be overcome in the space of a few weeks, or even months, by a scoop, or raid of mechanized vehicles, however formidable…"

Peter feels a chill down his neck and he thinks of Mum, sitting at home alone, hearing this same speech and knowing what it means for her husband on the front lines. He pictures her paling, pressing a hand to her cheek and setting her afternoon cup of tea carefully onto a table. He can see her reaching for the picture of Dad in uniform, prominently displayed next to his chair in the living room. Peter closes his eyes and shakes the image away, feeling Jack move closer, until they are kneeling side by side. Jack's father and brother enlisted at the beginning of the call-up, and Peter knows that recently a flag was sent home to the Curtis's. Who Jack lost, Peter doesn't know. No one has asked.

"…We must expect that as soon as stability is reached on the Western Front, the bulk of that hideous apparatus of aggression which gashed Holland into ruin and slavery in a few days will be turned upon us. I am sure I speak for all when I say we are ready to face it; to endure it; and to retaliate against it-to any extent that the unwritten laws of war permit…"

"'Laws of war'?" Jack's laugh is more like a gasp for air as his voice cuts sharply through the thick silence. The tension shatters. Alarm bells are going off in Peter's head, but Jack doesn't stop. "There are no laws. Only one rule: kill. Kill, kill, kill!" He is crying suddenly, unexpectedly, freckles standing out against his blanched cheeks, sweat tamping down his curly hair. Peter swallows hard and makes a weak motion for the boy to be quiet. He feels weighted, his mind fogged. Jack continues to sob and his voice rises in pitch and panic. To Peter, the words seem to reach him from a distance. They are difficult to comprehend. "Did my brother ask that German monster to point a gun in his face? Did he ask him to pull the trigger? Did he say, 'Oh, yes, you Jerry son of a bitch, please, I feel like dying today-'"

Peter finally acts, pressing his palm to the hysterical boy's mouth, but it is too late. He scrambles back from the door, dragging Jack with him as Mr. Carding, the English instructor, turns away from the radio and moves across the room, frowning as he registers the disruption. He peers around the doorway, straightening his tweed jacket, and catches sight of the two boys a metre down the hall, one writhing in the other's desperate grasp. Glancing back into the staff room, Mr. Carding steps out and pulls the door almost completely closed behind him, taking care not to let it click shut. He is at Peter's side in an instant, tugging Jack gently upright. Mr. Carding looks back at Peter for a moment.

"Shouldn't you boys be in class, Pevensie, Curtis?"

"Yes, sir." Peter speaks for them both, as Jack is incomprehensible. "We just wanted to hear the speech, sir."

Jack sucks in a ragged breath and begins to wail, his cries echoing off the high ceiling. "Dead, dead, he's going to kill us all! Andrew! Andrew, don't go!" He slumps forward, moaning, and Mr. Carding struggles to keep him from falling. Peter stares at Jack, wide-eyed and silent. He tries to suppress a shudder, but his shoulders shake briefly before he regains control. Stepping forward, Peter starts to ask how he can help, but Mr. Carding cuts him off.

"Get to class, Pevensie," he orders shortly, starting down the hall, Jack in tow. He turns his attention to the weeping boy. "I know it hurts, Curtis, come on now, let's go see Nurse Rider. Come on now, there's a good lad…"

Peter waits for the teacher's voice to fade away before pressing his ear to the door of the faculty lounge once more. He knows if Mr. Carding gets back before he's gone that there will be hell to pay, but he can't leave. Not yet. Not until he knows.

"…Centuries ago words were written to be a call and a spur to the faithful servants of Truth and Justice: 'Arm yourselves, and be ye men of valor, and be in readiness for the conflict; for it is better for us to perish in battle than to look upon the outrage of our nation and our altar. As the Will of God is in Heaven, even so let it be.'"

The voice falls silent and the radio crackles and hisses. It is over. Inside the room, the teachers begin to murmur. The tea kettle clangs as it is lifted clumsily from the stove.

Peter stands, numb. He turns and walks down the hall to his dormitory, falls upon his bed. He has not made a conscious decision to skive off class, but he knows that this dark, quiet room is the safest space for him now.

He forces away thoughts of Mum and Dad, but his siblings crowd to take their place in his tormented, terrified mind. Peter closes his eyes desperately and everything fades.

_He is watching his sisters from the front steps of their house. It is a bright spring day, cool with a warm breeze. Susan and Lucy are reading together on the front lawn, their dresses spilling about them like flower petals. He can hear their laughter covering a faint whine that Peter disregards as a car motor in the distance. _

_Lucy turns towards the street and calls out, waving. Peter watches Edmund drop his bicycle on the sidewalk and jog over to sit beside them. His brother grins, brushing a kiss on Susan's cheek and reaching over to twine his fingers around Lucy's waist, tickling her. She shrieks with laughter, her face creasing with the force of her giggles, but the whine nearly drowns her out._

_Above the group, the sky darkens. Susan frowns and looks up, confusion evident in her delicate features. Abruptly, her eyes widen and she stands, the books crushed underfoot. She cries out, grabbing at Edmund and Lucy's hands. Peter can't breathe. The whine has grown to a scream. _

_Lucy and Edmund also squint up at the sky and what they see makes them start to run. Peter has leapt off the stairs, dashing to meet them. He reaches for Susan but she darts past him, making for the door, Lucy's hand clutched in hers. Peter cannot get hold of his baby sister, either. She is moving too fast. _

_He grasps Edmund, though, pulling him close. Edmund squirms and struggles, but Peter doesn't let go. He grips his brother's face in his hands and their eyes meet, blue to brown. In their depths, Peter sees something hurtling towards them at violent speeds. He drops to the ground, crushing Edmund's body beneath him, and prays it's enough._

_The world explodes around them._

_Everything is white, then black, then red. The air stinks of sulfur and burned flesh as Peter rises, yelling incoherently. He knows he should be hurting, in pain, but there is none of that. He knows he should be looking for people, he can't think of whom, but they're important, he's sure. _

_With the unearthly speed that dreams posses, they appear in front of him: the girls first, sprawled grotesquely among the remnants of their house. Susan's black hair is strewn across her face, obscuring her features, but the scarlet streaking along her abdomen and rapidly spreading in a pool beneath her body is unhidden. _

_Lucy is curled up tightly, like she might be asleep. For a moment his heart gives a wild leap, but then the corner of the step she is lying on collapses and she tumbles limply forward, her neck bent at a sickening angle._

_Peter is silent, staring at the two bodies, and it is a long time before he registers the weight in his hands. Slowly, fighting himself the entire time, he looks down._

_Edmund, his body startlingly clean and unbroken, stares back at him with wide, sightless eyes. _

_All sense of feeling leaves Peter. His arms go slack and he watches the corpse fall heavily to the ground, lie still. _

_Now._

_Now, there is pain._

_Peter screams until his throat is raw, until he is coughing up blood, until the world has gone from red to black to white again and he can't feel anything at all._

He is still screaming when he wakes up.

**Source for Churchill's speech, actually given on May 19****th****: winstonchurchill learn / speeches / speeches – of – Winston – Churchill / 91 – be – ye – men – of – valour**

"**Jerry" is British slang for a German. The term was commonly used during WWI/WWII, possibly because the Germans' helmets were shaped like chamber pots, or jerries. Sources: urbandictionary . com as well as the AMAZING book "Code Name Verity" by Elizabeth Wein, about a female pilot and female spy who are best friends during WWII and what happens to them when it all goes wrong. It's been a while since a book left me breathless, but the narrative presence there is amazing, and the story is great. Look into it if historical fiction and sass are your type. **

**Please review!**


	11. Fox's Descent

**Happy Friday, all! 5-review thing still in place.  
**

**Guest: Thank you for reading and reviewing! Enjoy your next installment :)  
**

**dogluver: I know, it really is a horrifying dream. Thanks for reading and reviewing!  
**

**narniagirlfan: It amazes me that they still make Turkish Delight. Such a strange concept, that something in a fiction story is actually real. Thank you for reading and reviewing!  
**

**pineapple101: Poor Peter, indeed. I don't know if I'll ever show him having that nightmare again, but it's safe to assume it's not a one-time dream. Thank you for reading and reviewing!  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Ten: Fox's Descent**_

**London, June 5****th****, 1940 **

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

_**Warning: Graphic violence depicted. In fact, assume the rest of the story will have violence, especially as we enter the Narnia-verse. So, you have been warned.**  
_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

The days are warmer now, heavy and damp on the skin. The teachers at The Experiment House fling wide the windows of their classrooms hoping to entice a stray breeze into the dank recesses of the school, but today there is no wind. The sky is steadily darkening, turning an odd shade of yellow-gray. Reggie has equated it to how the breakfast eggs look under the cafeteria lights and Edmund has agreed. Privately, he thinks the sky is nearer to the color of someone's skin when they are ill.

Susan was very sick when he and Lucy were young (Lucy is still young but _he_ has since grown up). They had looked in on her once when they thought Susan was sleeping. As they had stood together in the doorway, Lucy clutching Edmund's clammy hand, Susan had opened fever-bright eyes and seen them. She had tried to speak, cracked lips parting, sweat sliding into her limp hair, and Edmund had pulled Lucy away from the sickroom. Susan, watching them go, had turned an awful color, yellow with gray in her cheeks, and begun to cry short, hacking sobs. Almost immediately, Lucy bolted for her sister's bedside and Edmund was too occupied with holding her back to notice Mum appear. She had shooed them both downstairs, her face tight and angry, yelling at Peter for not noticing they had left his care. (In Peter's defense, Lucy and Edmund had waited for Peter to fall asleep over his third reading of _The Coronation of King Arthur of Camelot_.) Edmund's embarrassment at being caught by Mum lasted only until he was tucked into bed that night, listening to Lucy and Peter's deep, even breathing, when the memory of Susan's short gasps for breath and yellowed face caused him to bury his head under his pillow and yearn desperately for morning.

Anyway, the sky looks like that today, like sick Susan. Not remotely like the eggs served for breakfast.

Not that he's ever going to tell Reggie that. Reggie's word is law.

Edmund stares out of the window, tips his chair back on its legs, frowns. The clouds look as though you could run at them and bounce off—a solid mass. He brings his pencil up to his mouth, sucks the eraser.

"Eyes on your exam, Mr. Pevensie."

He starts, chair crashing to all four legs. Heads whip around to stare and he glares until they turn away. He removes the pencil briefly.

"Sorry, sir." His apology drips derision and the proctor knows it. They watch each other for a moment before the teacher looks away, checking the timepiece on his desk. Edmund smirks, stares out the window again. The sky is darker. Edmund pictures a crouching wolf cloaked in the clouds.

Something wet sticks to his neck and Edmund turns, frowning deeply. He forces a smile when he catches the eye of O'Toole, who is pleased by how accurate his spitball was. Reggie holds up the back of his exam paper, revealing one of the crudest drawings of female anatomy Edmund has ever seen. As Reggie drags his pencil across his throat, Edmund grins and turns back around.

Both boys long to be anywhere but here, in this final exam before school lets out. Tests at The Experiment House are usually simple affairs, but Someone Important has recently offered to make a Large Donation, should the school have sound proof of the success of its casual style of teaching. Thus: the hardest examinations Edmund has faced at The Experiment House, made much harder by the fact that he has barely studied. But, Edmund reasons, he has had other things to do and, quite frankly, couldn't bring himself to care.

Besides, O'Toole has informed him that his father has everything under control. Albert, Gunnar, and Bryan have to worry, but he and Reggie do not. Interesting, Edmund reflects, what money can do. "The universal language," O'Toole has joked, buying alliances and favors, glossing over problems like poor exam results by purchasing new cricket equipment.

Edmund had laughed, as O'Toole had expected, all the while wondering if Reggie's father's newly minted fortune could be appropriately disbursed to end the War.

Coming upon that thought again, Edmund shoves it quickly from his mind. Better not to think of Dad and the fighting. Not even Mr. O'Toole has that kind of money.

A flash outside the window, accompanied by a closer-than-anticipated rumble has the proctor scurrying to seal off the classroom against the impending storm. Edmund can hear the thunder of artillery; smell the sulfur of the battlefield that his father has described in his infrequent, heavily censored letters. His heart speeds up and he wonders if this this how Dad feels, so far away. Is he in France now? That's where he had mentioned he was headed. The exact location had been blacked out so that only the country remained.

At least, Edmund thought wryly, the Allies were attempting to make it remain.

A second, louder blast of sound. Edmund ducks instinctively, nearly slamming his head into his desk. Next to him, Gunnar snickers, silenced only when he feels Reggie's stare on his back. Edmund turns to look out of the window again, catches lightning slitting the sky. Rain begins to fall, droplets glowing in the unearthly light of the storm. The teacher reaches for the window by Edmund and tugs on the rusted handle. It begins to close reluctantly, squeaking. The students look up from their exams, their cascade of soft titters bouncing off the vaulted ceiling.

This does not mask the sound of a door swinging wide, hitting a wall. Edmund twists in his seat in time to see Professor Higgins bolt up the aisle and slam an armful of radio onto the front desk.

"Here now—!" The proctor begins angrily. The children around Edmund no longer bother to hide their laughter, Gunnar guffaws. Edmund stares at the radio, heart thudding. The proctor leaves off the window, storming up to Professor Higgins, but the Professor waves him off impatiently.

"Listen to this report, Bernie, just listen to this report!" The proctor grumbles but Higgins is already fiddling with the tuner. There is a crackle, and then a man's voice comes through clearly, exuberant.

"—Evacuation of Dunkirk a great success! Hundreds sent boats across the Channel to help out our boys before the Germans closed us off. A wonderful act of teamwork with French and English working together, and so few lives lost! Yes, these fine soldiers will live to fight another day.

"Of course, there were prisoners taken, and our thoughts and prayers at QXY-4 go out to those brave men now facing perhaps a harder battle than those looking down the barrel of the gun. There are a reported 30,000-40,000 French POW's, but the British number is far less. Not many names have come through yet, but we do have a few cases that we can read off. Apologies for the lack of information."

The room is silent now. No one laughs. Edmund clutches the sides of his desk so hard that his knuckles turn white. He listens, listens so intently that he forgets to breathe, forgets all but his pulse thrumming and his stomach rolling and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He shudders violently as rain spatters his exam.

The newscaster clears his throat.

"Brennan, Michael. Private. Missing, presumed captured.

"Gordon, John Jacob. Private. Confirmed captured.

"Hunnell, Samuel. Sergeant. Missing, presumed dead.

"McCoy, Robert. Private. Confirmed captured.

"Norton, Abraham. Private. Confirmed captured."

Silence from the radio. Edmund allows himself to breathe. The list of confirmed and missing is remarkably short. He's alright then. Nothing to worry about. Been evacuated.

"Sorry, dropped my second sheet. To continue the names…let's see here…ah! Orson, Joshua. Captain. Confirmed dead. Pevensie, Richard. Private. Missing, presumed captured. Stewart, Adam. Private. Missing..."

The announcer drones on as Edmund's desk topples over and the entire class whips around to stare at him once more. The next instant, Reggie is at his side, arm over his shoulders, steering him from the room. He tosses their exams on Albert's desk and murmurs something Edmund can't catch. Albert nods. He watches Edmund warily. They all do. O'Toole slams the door behind them.

Edmund shrugs Reggie's arm off and then stands motionless in the corridor. The newscaster's voice is still discernible through the door. He claps his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut.

The world is wrong, utterly wrong, and he is helpless. He cannot do anything for his father. He cannot do anything for anyone and no one is helping him.

He wonders vaguely if Peter knows. If he heard the report on the radio. Maybe someone pulled him from class to whisper in his ear, maybe Mum burst in crying. Maybe Peter just knew. Some sort of Father-Firstborn Telepathy. Something. He wonders what Peter did once he knew. If he leapt up and ran for the train. Perhaps Peter is coming to tell him, to get him, to take him home.

The thought steadies him, and Edmund opens his eyes. Reggie waits, leaning against the wall opposite, arms crossed. He pushes off the wall and sidles over, standing in front of Edmund. His hand lands on Edmund's arm. Edmund tenses in his hold.

"Tough luck, eh, old chap?"

Edmund swings at him with wild, raging savagery. He hasn't felt like this since the encounter with Professor Fitzhugh. He wants to make someone hurt, someone cry, and if that happens to be Reggie O'Toole well that's just fine—

O'Toole hits him so hard that he isn't aware he's on the floor until Reggie's dragging him up by his collar, an enraged, animalistic snarl etched into his face. There's a cut across his cheek, and Edmund realizes dimly that he's made the boy bleed. It is, he thinks, probably not his most brilliant idea.

Reggie's fist connects with his jaw a second time and Edmund reels, held up by his attacker only. A third blow and he can feel blood gushing from his nose. O'Toole is making inarticulate noises as he winds up for a fourth punch, no longer recognizable as the ever-controlled Reginald O'Toole of Manchester, thank you very much. Edmund tries not to move, braces himself.

Abruptly, Reggie releases Edmund and he falls backward, choking on his blood. He rolls to his side, spitting scarlet. There is no sound in the corridor except for Edmund's labored breathing and O'Toole's whistling gasps as he struggles for control.

"You...you hit me again, Pevensie, and you'll wish I had killed you. You attack me...ever again, and I will burn you."

"Reggie, I—"

"I will burn the _heart_ out of you."

Edmund's nose drips onto the wood boards. He does not attempt to speak again. After a moment, he stands, leaning against the wall, and starts towards the Headmaster's office. Reggie does not follow him. The bell rings for the end of exams and students flood the halls, cheering. They do not approach him.

Once there, he slumps into a battered chair and waits for Peter to come find him and take him home.

Hours later, the office is dark. The hallway is lit by a few low lamps. It is after curfew and no one is about. Edmund sits in the chair and waits.

Footsteps echo in the hall and he jumps up, staring at the figure approaching from the shadows. "Peter!"

O'Toole's purpled face is lit orange in the lamplight. Edmund staggers back, swallowing bile. Disappointment and fear make a foul combination on his tongue.

Reggie stops a few paces from him. Stares at him with a look mingling pity and scorn. "He didn't come then, that perfect brother of yours? The magnificent Peter Pevensie has abandoned his black sheep of a sibling?"

Edmund shakes his head, scrambling. "He's just late. The train was delayed."

Reggie nods. "Of course." He steps towards Edmund, who retreats again. He snorts. "Here." He holds out a greasy paper bag, and Edmund lunges for it.

The chips are soggy and cold and a bit burnt, but he doesn't care. He scarfs them down as though he hasn't eaten in days. Reggie watches in silence. When Edmund has at last licked his fingers clean, he looks up at the boy who has come for him, knocked sense into him, provided for him time and again.

When Reggie turns and begins walking towards the dormitories, Edmund follows, the paper bag abandoned on the chair.

They stop at their dormitory first. Reggie knocks twice, waits, knocks again. Almost immediately, the door opens. Albert, Gunnar, and Bryan shuffle out, followed by two others. Edmund frowns. "Who're they?" His voice ricochets in the hall and Gunnar shoots him a dirty glance. Edmund glares back. He has not cleaned his face since his fight, and the blood is tight on his chin. Gunnar looks away.

Reggie shrugs. "New recruits. Alright, Carter, Sorner?"

The pair nod. Carter speaks. "The Garrett twins want to know if they can come too, O'Toole."

"And Bannister!" Sorner adds.

Edmund scoffs, rolls his eyes at Reggie. "You picked people who can't keep their mouths shut, Reggie. Nice job."

The boys protest loudly, and O'Toole holds up a hand. Instant silence.

"No to the Garretts and Bannister…for now. And Carter, Sorner?" The boys snap to attention. "Keep your filthy mouths shut or I'll have them shut for you."

They avert their eyes, abashed, and Edmund snickers. He brushes past Albert and follows a step behind Reggie as he leads them down two more hallways, then stops. Bryan stares around suspiciously. "But these are…"

"The girls dorms? Astute observation."

Edmund whirls to face a girl who slides out of the doorway. She wraps her dressing gown tightly around her waist, accenting her curves. The boys all notice. Adela Pennyfather is an early bloomer. She smiles warmly at Reggie, winds her arm through his. "We didn't know to be dressed."

Reggie grins easily, slides fingers along her hip. "You look just fine."

Adela laughs throatily and gestures to the door. Edith Winterblott and Cholmondeley Major saunter out, similarly attired. Edith eyes Edmund up and down and the corner of her mouth twists. "Why's he bloody?"

Edmund stiffens. Reggie sighs. "Doesn't matter, Winterblott. Just fall in."

"Fall in! I like the sound of that!" Cholmondeley giggles and mimics Adela, wrapping herself neatly around Albert. "Did you know I'm a gymnast?" She asks idly, trailing her nails along his neck.

"Oh. Erm, no! No. I didn't." Albert tries in vain to keep his voice from cracking. Edmund stifles a laugh.

He jerks when he feels a damp cloth pressed against his face. "Shh," Edith breathes, "I'm making it better." He allows her to wipe off the blood, watches her toss the handkerchief back into her room before shutting the door. "Much better." She looks at him from beneath her lashes and Edmund suddenly feels very warm.

"I like your nightgown," he says stupidly, and Cholmondeley erupts into further giggles. Edith smiles as Edmund reddens.

"Shall we get on?" Reggie asks impatiently. The boys snap to attention, the girls look slowly around. The procession starts off down the hall, but soon stops again. After a look at O'Toole, Adela detaches herself from his arm and knocks on the door marked "Girls, Lower Form". It opens, and Adela leans forward to speak to someone inside. The door closes and she steps back. A minute later, the door opens again and a young girl is shoved into the hall. The door shuts quickly behind her as the girl stumbles into the lamplight, groggy with sleep.

Edmund frowns. She looks familiar, but he can't place her in that candy-striped nightdress. She is clutching a battered teddy bear as she looks around at them. When she sees him, her mouth opens in a small 'o'. He looks away before she can speak.

Reggie gestures. Carter and Sorner step forward, grab her arms. The girl squeaks as the teddy bear falls. The boys frog-march her down the hall, and the rest follow.

They pass unmolested through the front doors and out into the courtyard. Reggie takes the lead with Adela at his side, guiding the group off the path and further into the school gardens, overgrown and unmaintained. Edmund glances back at the building and catches a light on in the Headmaster's room. The curtains are parted slightly. He thinks he sees him watching, but then the cloth falls, the light goes out, and he cannot see anything anymore.

"Scared?" Edith murmurs, and Edmund laughs.

"You wish," he answers, acutely aware that with every step he takes away from The Experiment House, the stronger and more powerful he feels. He is unafraid, invincible tonight.

Reggie stops short and Edmund bumps into him. Another gesture and the girl is thrown to the ground. She whimpers, her pale face luminous in the moonglow. Albert strikes a match as they encircle her. Nobody speaks. The girl sniffles, starts to sob. Her toes curl into the grass.

The match burns out and in the sudden dark, the girl bolts towards Cholmondeley, who she seems to have picked as the weakest link. Cholmondeley casually sticks out her foot and the girl goes sprawling in the dirt. Gunnar and Bryan laugh, grab her, and throw her back into the circle. Albert strikes another match as they all step closer. Edmund's pulse is racing. He is grinning. He can't remember the last time he felt so alive.

The girl looks around at them all, mud browning her front. She fixates on Edmund, reaches towards him.

"Edmund Pevensie," she gasps and he goes still. "Please—!"

He cannot recall who she is amidst all the grime left from the rain and it angers him. He does not know why Peter hasn't come and it infuriates him. He does not know why Dad is not home safe and it enrages him.

He has hit her across the face before he quite realizes he's moved. The group cheers. He pants, sucks in air. The girl stirs feebly and he hits her again. She sobs, crawling away from him, hair matted with grass and dirt. Carter sticks out his foot and thrusts her back towards him. Edmund winds up again as she gapes at him in terror, and as his fist connects he recognizes her.

Jill.

Jill Something. He isn't clear on that bit, but he knows who she is. The Girl with the Gloves. She'd brought him to Peter, that freezing February day when he was coming down with pneumonia and just wanted to collapse.

He's never told his family how badly he'd been sick afterwards. They'll never know.

He's never told Peter how much seeing him meant.

And then Peter hadn't gotten him out of The Experiment House.

Peter hasn't written him. Neither has Susan or Lucy. Mum, barely.

And now Dad is gone and Peter. Hasn't. Saved. Him.

He hurts so much and there is nothing to be done.

The Gang, as they vote themselves later that night, yell and cat-call around him. He looks into Reggie's eyes, finds him remarkably calm. This, Edmund understands, is Reggie's gift to him. A way to stop the pain. As they gaze at each other, all else fades away. Edmund waits. Finally, Reggie nods.

Edmund hits Jill Something again.

The next day, the trip home from school is silent. Everyone is too wrapped up in their own fear and worry to speak to Edmund. Peter eyes his bruised face, his oozing knuckles, then turns away. Edmund feels a vicious sort of triumph. His own brother, too afraid to ask.

Closing his eyes, Edmund listens to Jill Something cry. He hits her again.

Leaning his head against the window, he smiles.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**And there is Edmund's break. Boy is screwed.**

**I don't believe this behavior is totally out of character for children 10 years old. I remember the mob-mentality and blatant sexuality of kids I knew in fifth grade. So, yes, this is extraordinarily vicious, but I do think it could happen.  
**

**As always, the Narnia Wiki for The Gang and its members.  
**

** en . Wikipedia wiki / Dunkirk _ evacuation for where Mr. Pevensie got captured. **

**Points to anyone who knows the source of Reggie's creepy quote about burning. It gave me chills when I heard it initially.**

**Review please!**


	12. Lion's Game

**Hey, y'all. Happy Friday! Thank you for all your amazing responses to that chapter. I was worried about it. 5 reviews for the next, as usual.  
**

**Since only MCH guessed, I'm just going to tell you that the quote "I will burn you. I will burn the _heart_ out of you," is what Moriarty says to Sherlock in a confrontation on the BBC show, "Sherlock." It seemed to fit Reggie's unhinged state nicely, and was properly creepy.  
**

**Guest: Thank you for reviewing! I'm so glad you liked it.  
**

**dogluver: I completely understand. Edmund is easy to hate for what he did. I kind of hate what I've made him, too. I'm so happy that this was your favorite chapter! I worked hard on it :)  
**

**narniagirlfan: Yep, Edmund's pretty evil. Enjoy your update!  
**

**pineapple101: Oh, yes, there will be nightmares. Edmund will be haunted for the rest of his life by what he does in England and in Narnia, don't you worry. Thank you for the suggestion!  
**

**Thanks also to bookchomper101 and Yohometown for following and favoriting my story! Don't hesitate to message me with questions, comments, dislikes, or things you'd like to see in this piece.  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Eleven: Lion's Game**_

**Finchley, July 1st, 1940 **

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

They are sprawled on the front lawn in the dry July heat. Behind them, the windows of their house are flung wide. Mum's voice, tight and strained, wafts through the air. They pretend not to register her panic, glad that her words are muffled.

As Peter looks around at his siblings, each absorbed in whatever they are doing, he wonders how much they understand. Lucy is the only one of the four who can be expected not to truly know what is going on inside their house. She is eight and sheltered under Mum's soft words and Susan's gentle hands. He tries to keep her innocent, too, which mainly involves keeping her away from Edmund, who, it seems, likes nothing better than to make his baby sister cry.

Lucy sits near Peter now, as close as he can position her without raising suspicion. She dresses and undresses her doll, doing up the buttons just so, smoothing the hair like that. All the while she smiles brightly, murmurs quietly to Miss Pennyfeather, tips the doll forward to blink her blue eyes shut in sleep. She had been given Miss Pennyfeather for her last birthday by Susan and Peter together, who had noticed the resemblance the doll bore in her auburn hair and fair skin to their sister. It had been Edmund who'd named her, quite flustered, when Lucy had turned to him with rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes to demand he contribute to her present, too. The smile she had bestowed upon her brother in that moment had left him stammering and flushed with pleasure.

Lucy's smiles are a fraction of their old warmth and happiness, now. She still spreads joy like a dandelion spreads seeds—manifold and far-flung—but there is a hollowness to her that was not there before. Peter wishes he knew how to approach her and soothe her fear. It used to be easy to make her pain go away with a hug or a smile. He understood Lucy. Now she is different (they all are), and the things he thought he understood are the ones he knows least of all.

Susan is only lying on the grass because it places her face in closer proximity to the ground. She would not normally position herself in such an inelegant pose, and Peter would tease her about it if he thought he could. But she cries so easily lately, like she used to when she was younger, that he hasn't the heart. She has withdrawn from family interaction as much as possible, while still helping Mum manage Lucy. She constantly reads the newspapers, spends all of her money on every paper in print in London. Any new information she gleans about the war is underlined in a bold black stroke. In an uncharacteristic lack of respect, Susan has torn a fold-up world map out of an Encyclopaedia Britannica which, as they don't own one, he can only assume she stole from the library. She places colored dots in spidery trails across Europe and the oceans. When Peter asks her about the map, she gives him an explanation so complicated that he can't even begin to follow, which he suspects is her intention—to be left alone with the looming map that she folds and unfolds deftly into a paper no bigger than an envelope. It obsesses her.

The map has been brought outside with her today, as it does not often leave her sight. She weighs down the corners with stones. Newspapers are stacked on her right and scattered in sheets on her left, striped in black ink. The discards. Susan mutters to herself as she scrutinizes the dots, speaking louder, though no more intelligibly, as Mum's voice comes more clearly though the windows.

Peter rubs his sweaty temples and slumps backwards until his spine presses against the porch steps. Usually he can count on Susan to be open with him, but this retreat she's made in the face of being hurt has rendered her unapproachable. She is like Mum in that respect. They have both grown colder. He and Mum have been a team since September, working together to keep their family strong. But with Dad…in trouble, she's shut him out. She turns away from him, won't meet his gaze, flies to the phone whenever it rings, hovers over the dial when it doesn't. Dinner is often late because of her conversations with people in Official Bureaus of Something or Other. She knows many of these people by name now, greets them just by their voice at the end of the line. He wishes he could help Mum, but she doesn't let him.

Tilting his head backwards, it lands on the stair with a thunk. Closing his eyes against the late afternoon sun, he sees Edmund against his lids. He isn't sure exactly when his younger brother became so inscrutable, and it's incredibly frustrating. The Experiment House changed him. He's quiet, silent, even, and watches everyone with a twisted sneer permanently marring his pale face. He's scraped and bruised, has injuries in places Peter knows you get from fighting, not falling from trees, as Mum believes. Edmund scorns everything now, looks at his family as if he is better than them and knows something they do not. He lies to Mum, scoffs at Susan, hisses low remarks to Lucy that make her face swell with tears. And to Peter himself…

Edmund says nothing at all.

He watches. He lets Peter catch him watching. He stares until Peter is forced to look away because he does not know what to say that will change the frozen, hard light in those dark eyes. He does not know what gesture to make that will bring his little brother crashing into his arms and not flinch back like the first time he touched his shoulder after they got home from school. He would suggest a game of Princess and the Dragon if he thought a sword fight with cricket bats would change anything. He shudders, suddenly cold.

"How about The Evil Lord and the Good Princess?"

The words tumble from his lips unexpectedly; he startles himself. Susan looks up briefly, eyes unfocused. "The what?"

"The Evil Lord and the Good Princess," he replies desperately, "Don't you remember?" She shakes her head, returning to her map. He appeals to Lucy. "Lu, don't you remember?"

She bites her lip. "Sorry, no. I remember Princess and Dragon, though."

"Oh, that!" Susan snaps. "An old fairy-tale game. I have more important things to do." Lucy blinks, hurt. Susan glances at her sidelong. "I'm sorry, dear, I just don't have the time. Aren't we a bit old for that sort of thing now? Pretending?"

"You must recall it!" Peter tries again. "We only played it once. Ed came up with it—"

"I remember." Peter stills. They all do. Edmund has been digging a sizable hole in the yard with a trowel for about forty minutes now. He has a pail beside him, occasionally drops something into it. Peter hasn't bothered to scold. He'll just fill in the hole later.

Edmund stands, hands browned with dirt. "It's like Princess and Dragon under another name, Lu. We can play." His eyes never leave Peter's as he speaks. Peter shivers, reddens at this fear that locks around his heart, this irrational wondering if Edmund wants to hurt him.

Susan sighs. "I don't think so."

"You were Queen, Su. Had your own country. Peter was subservient." His voice is mechanical, calculating. Susan brightens. Lucy straightens attentively, smiling.

"Same roles?" Susan asks casually, sending an easy grin in Peter's direction. He makes a wry face, but agrees. Lucy bounces up, cheering, and they make their way to the backyard.

The Good Princess is efficiently kidnapped, dragged off roughly by the Evil Lord. He does not stop tugging her arm despite her pleas and the very realistic tears in her eyes. He remarks that she is a wonderful actress. Her timid "But Edmund—" is cut off as they disappear into the bushes. Susan dissolves into high-pitched wails and flings her arms around Peter's neck.

"Bring her back safely!" she sobs, her whole body trembling. Peter hugs her briefly, but her fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt, holding him in place. "I'll make you King, Peter, just bring her back!" When she looks up at him, he sees real fear clinging to her like chains. His heart beings to race. He nods solemnly, kisses her damp forehead.

"I will."

As he advances on the Evil Lord's hideout, he distinguishes Lucy's sniffles from the rustling of leaves and calls lowly, "Be a brave girl, Your Highness, I'll soon get you out."

The sniffles subside and she answers strongly, "I await your rescue, father. I trust in your strength."

He scans the wall of bushes and trees that separate their property from the neighbors. "Your mother, the queen, has promised me a kingship should I bring you home safely, Princess."

"You deserve it."

Peter freezes, narrows his eyes at a dark shadow on a branch above him. "I would do it for naught but your smile, my lady."

Lucy's reply is lost in Edmund's scream as he launches himself from the tree and lands on top of Peter, bringing them both to the ground. Peter struggles to pull air into his lungs, rolls Edmund off him so that he can stand. He snatches up his cricket bat and faces the Evil Lord. "Have at thee, sir!" he wheezes, and Edmund barrels towards him, bat raised. Lucy shrieks as the woods collide, paint chips off and they break apart, only to careen together again and again.

Peter is bigger and stronger by far and uses those traits to his advantage, pushing Edmund back towards the trees. He smiles broadly at his brother. "A good day for a fight!" His smile falters when there is no response. Edmund retreats, stony, matching Peter blow for blow. He does not glance at the ground, walks upon it as though it is flat. Overconfidence is Peter's undoing. He trips, pitching forward with a yell and slamming into the ground. The courteous move in a duel would be to wait until the opponent could rise, but the Evil Lord has no such scruples and lunges unhesitatingly forward. Peter rolls desperately, gasps as the cricket bat presses against his chest. His eyes fly up to Edmund, panting above him, hair plastered to his head. Edmund presses harder against Peter's breastbone and he winces, yielding. "Alright, Ed, you win! Let me up!"

He grits his teeth in pain and panic as, in response, Edmund presses harder, as though he truly means to puncture Peter with the bat in his hand.

"No!" Lucy cries, and Edmund presses harder still. Peter can't breathe, can't think past the frantic hammering of his heart. Edmund's eyes are like stone.

"Edmund—!"

Abruptly the pressure is gone and Peter curls into a ball, places shaking hands on his chest. Blood rushes in his ears.

"Edmund, Lucy, what are you doing?" Susan, noting the delay in the return of her husband and daughter, has arrived at the Evil Lord's lair. She pries Lucy from Edmund's back, where she has clamped herself, monkey-like, to get him off Peter. Lucy is crying, incoherent, and Edmund stands to one side, not speaking. Susan herds Lucy towards the house, calling for Mum. She doesn't stop to look back at Peter; she thinks he's playacting at being hurt.

He's not. The crushing pain reverberates in his chest. He knows it will bruise.

Edmund advances on him, stands above. It is the first time he has ever been taller than Peter. Twisting into a sitting position, Peter lifts his blond head and glares at his brother. His cheeks are flushed with fury, eyes snapping and bright. "What were you playing at?" he demands. Edmund doesn't answer. He bends down for an instant, setting the pail he was using earlier at Peter's feet. He speaks his first real words since the game began.

"Happy birthday, Pete."

He rises and walks away. Peter stares after him, aghast. Is it really…? He calculates in his head, realizes with a plummeting sensation that Edmund is right: he is now thirteen years old.

No one else remembers. He doesn't blame them. Dad is all anyone thinks about, all he thinks about. There will be no presents this year, no cake. He doesn't mind.

But Eddy remembers.

Feeling a surge of affection for his little brother, Peter reaches for the pail to see what Edmund has gotten him. A plant, perhaps? That would explain the digging.

Peter peers inside, then tips the pail over with a yell of shock, scrambling backwards.

Twisting and writhing on the ground is a pile of worms.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Please review!**


	13. Fox's Amusement

**Hello, all! Happy Friday! Here's your next chapter. Drop me a line so we reach the 5-review mark. You guys are so great about that.  
**

**bookchomper101: Thank you so much! I'm glad you like my depiction of Edmund. The darker characters always interest me the most, too. Enjoy!**

**Guest: Thanks so much! Enjoy your update :)  
**

**dogluver: Haha yes, Edmund's heart is pretty dark and cold. But there's pain and fear as well. Don't forget that!  
**

**narniagirlfan: Yep, there's a new Edmund in town and Peter doesn't know what to do with him. Don't give up on him yet, though :)  
**

**pineapple101: I'm so glad you loved it! There will absolutely be brotherly fluff in this story once the boys reconcile, and I imagine Edmund will have nightmares for the rest of his life about what he does before Aslan saves him, and Peter will do his dardnest to make him feel better about it ;)  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Twelve: Fox's Amusement**_

**Finchley, August 23rd, 1940**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

"'Acatalectic.'"

Silence.

"Oh, come on, Peter, try 'acatalectic'."

A sigh.

"…Is it Latin?"

"Yes, but it was Greek first."

Another sigh.

"I'm bored! When's Mummy going to take us to the toy shop?"

"Lucy, the toy shop closed, remember?"

"Can't we go somewhere else, then?"

"Mummy's busy, Lu. Can't you play with Miss Pennyfeather here, where Peter and I can see you?"

A thump of protest. Likely Miss Pennyfeather's head has smacked indecently against the floor.

"But it's boring here! I don't wanna."

Another, louder thump. Susan has shut the dictionary. "Well, go outside then." She's losing patience.

A gasp. "Can I?"

"I dunno, Lu, all by yourself?"

"I won't go near the street, promise! Peter, please-!"

"Oh, alright, just be careful."

A squeal of glee. Moments later, the front door slams behind her. Peter grunts as the book rustles open again.

"So…'acatalectic,' Peter, try."

He groans. "Really, Su, can't we play something else?"

A scratchy, splitting sound. The dictionary's tissue-thin page tears. "What do you suggest, Peter?" Susan asks coldly.

Another silence. Peter capitulates.

"…Is it a condition?"

"No. It's school-related."

"Oh, goody."

"Peter!"

"Sorry! Er…"

Edmund slides from his bed. He hasn't bothered to take off his shoes, so it's no trouble to tiptoe immediately out the bedroom door and to the top of the stairs. Once there, he pauses, listening.

"Is it mathematical?"

"Not remotely."

"English, then."

"Go on."

"Oh, I dunno…"

"Peter!"

"Fine! Is it analytical?"

He smiles. As much as Peter complains, he is increasingly invested in his game with Susan as he gets closer to the definition of the word. Gripping the bannister, Edmund starts down the stairs. He stretches over the creaky fifth step and glances to his left. He can see them now, Susan and Peter. She is lying full length on the couch with the dictionary propped on her stomach. He is slumped in a chair with his back to the stairs, hands dangling over the sides of the armrests.

Edmund's tongue pokes from between his lips as he continues to the landing. He holds his breath as he sidles past the living room and into the front hallway. The doorknob is warm under his hand and turns soundlessly. It is the door itself that squeals, loudly, as he tugs it open.

The sounds taper off in the living room.

He bolts outside, yanking the door shut behind him. Edmund settles on the stairs, shrinking from the sunshine. He leans again the railing and closes his eyes.

"Hullo, Edmund!"

He jolts. Lucy bounds up to him, clutching Miss Pennyfeather tight to her chest. He flinches. She is brighter than the sun and he can't stand it. "Hullo, Lucy."

"Would you like to come to a tea party with me and Miss Pennyfeather?"

He glares. Her smile falters. "I just thought…" Her cheeks pink and she turns away.

He doesn't know what makes him do it, but he lunges forward and catches her arm. She looks back. He forces a slight upturn of his mouth, which she takes to be a smile. "'Course I'll play, Lu. Where's this tea party?"

She takes his hand in hers, chatters mindlessly as she leads him to the center of the lawn and seats him on an imaginary chair. After arranging Miss Pennyfeather at her side, she sits as well and reaches for the unseen teapot. He frowns and she pauses. "What is it, Edmund?"

He points. "Why are we using that teapot?" Lucy's hands hover, tremble.

"What d'you mean?" Her eyes are wide. "Is there something wrong with it?"

He shakes his head somberly, fighting a grin. "Not wrong, no…it's just…well, it's just ugly, isn't it?"

To her credit, Lucy recovers quite quickly. "I beg your pardon!" she cries, "This must be the old set! Let's use the newer one, it's much prettier!" She cradles her arms and Edmund shrugs indifferently.

"It's a bit better, yeah. Let's hope the tea's good, I guess." He can hear what Reggie's laugh will sound like when he tells this story back at school. _You criticized an imaginary teapot? Did she cry? Brilliant, old chap, brilliant!_

Lucy's smile slips slightly as she curls her hand around the teapot and reaches over to him. "Your cup, please."

He holds out his hand obediently, but as Lucy tries to take his cup, his makes a violent shaking motion. "Oh, how could you!" He shouts indignantly, "You've dropped my cup! It's shattered!"

Lucy's mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Finally, she whispers, "I'll get you another one," and picks up a cup in front of her. Edmund smirks.

"So I get a mismatched cup now, is that it?" He leans back on his arms. "That's a rotten way to treat your guests, wouldn't you say, Miss Pennyfeather?" He tips the doll forward until her face is pressed in the dirt.

"Edmund!"

"Oh, dear, Miss Pennyfeather's taken ill! It must be those dreadful biscuits. Let's see, shall we?" He picks up an invisible biscuit, holding his thumb and forefinger apart. He mimes taking a bite. Lucy watches him, quivering. He coughs theatrically. "Ugh! This is awful!" Bending over, Edmund spits in Miss Pennyfeather's hair. Saliva slides down her back, dampening her dress. He laughs with glee.

Lucy bursts into tears and leaps to her feet. "This is the worst tea party ever!"

"I know." Edmund shakes his finger. She shivers before him, Miss Pennyfeather pressed into the crook of her arm. "And it's all your fault."

Lucy's wails, far louder than he would have thought possible. She goes on, too. He shifts uncomfortably. "Do shut up, Lu. I was only having a laugh!"

Someone grabs him from behind.

Reacting instinctively, Edmund flings his fist backwards and connects with a face.

"Ouch! Watch it, Eddy! Get in the shelter, quick!"

"Wha—?"

Susan has scooped up Lucy. She screams, "It's the air raid siren!" She races for the back of the house. He does not move.

Peter hauls him upright. "Come _on, _Edmund!" He shakes himself free.

"I can walk, thanks!"

Peter throws up his hands. "Run!" He tears away. Scuffing his feet, Edmund follows. He looks up at the sky, bright with daylight.

Something dark moves behind a cloud.

He hurdles up the stairs and into the house, snatching Dad's photo from the table. In a second he's running across the grass to where Mum stands beckoning, clutching the shelter door. He leaps past her and into the darkness, stepping on someone's feet. Susan cries out. He doesn't apologize.

Mum slams the door and feels her way to them in the black. She settles next to him, wraps her arm around his shoulders. He tries to shrug her off, but there just isn't enough room. The photo frame cuts into his palms.

They listen to the sirens, so much louder than even their breathing. Lucy sniffles. Peter sighs. "Get here more quickly next time, alright Eddy?"

"Don't tell me what to do!" Always trying to be Dad—!

"Edmund…" Mum sounds tired.

He nearly runs from the shelter. Would serve them right if he opens the door and they all get bombed to bits. He'd rather like that. No more Peter to boss him around.

The siren continues. Susan asks morosely, "Should we time this?" No one answers.

"I should think about putting a light in here," Mum muses.

"I'll do it when we get out," Peter volunteers.

"If we get out," Edmund grumbles.

Lucy begins to cry again. He snarls, "Oh, shut up for once, Lucy!"

"Edmund!" Mum no longer sounds tired. Just very, very angry. He sinks into a sulk and remains in the shelter long after the air raid is over and the others have gone.

Peter doesn't install the light until Edmund drags himself into the house hours later.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Please review!**


	14. Lion's Blunder

**happy Friday, all! 5 review for the next chapter-still applies.  
**

**Guest: I'm so glad you loved it! Thanks for reading and reviewing :)  
**

**dogluver: I wish the old Edmund was here too. But he'll come back! Thanks for reading and reviewing :)  
**

**narniagirlfan: Eep I'm so glad you like it! Thanks for reading and reviewing :)  
**

**pineapple101: Edmund has been corrupted, hence his lack of brotherly niceties lol Thanks for reading and reviewing!  
**

**bookchomper101: The siren part was actually a buildup for the actual siren bit in the movie, as you'll see. Nice catch! Edmund isn't beyond hope. I thought that needed reiterating. And yes, we're getting closer to Narnia! I'm excited :) Thanks for reading and reviewing!  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^  
**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Thirteen: Lion's Blunder**_

**Finchley, September 7****th****, 1940**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

_**PLEASE READ THESE 2 PARAGRAPHS: This is where I start using the movie as well as the book for reference. These chapters are going to lean heavily on both devices until they basically run out and the Pevensies have their undocumented reign in Narnia for me to make up. Hate if you want, but I'm trying to make canon work with my story, if possible. **_

_**Also, I have run out of pre-written chapters and college is busting my butt right now, so I haven't got the time to write more. I can't promise to get anything up next week, but over Thanksgiving break for sure. So this story may go on temporary hiatus, but it's just until November. I'm sorry!**_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

They are arguing in their room when it happens. Peter is trying to explain to Edmund exactly why he needs his desk light on for five more minutes while Edmund is mulishly insisting on changing into his pyjamas with the lights off so that he can start feeling sleepy. Peter runs his hands through his hair in frustration.

"Edmund, I just want to check my bag through one more time. You know Mum won't be able to send anything we forget within the first week. There's much more important mail, now."

"I don't see why we have to go to school anyhow. We've declared war! Nazi's will probably bomb our schools to smithereens soon." Edmund crosses his legs on his bed and Peter glares pointedly at his dirty shoes mucking up the sheets. Edmund doesn't move. Peter sighs.

"Yes, we've declared war. That doesn't mean bombings. We need to try to keep everything normal. You know school is the only reason Su's not panicking." He's trying to get Edmund to see the danger in their situation, the danger in not keeping up morale. In his mind, he hears the echoes of Jack Curtis's hysteria.

"That and she's dead asleep," Edmund scoffs, "hours before normal. Didn't she go to bed with Lucy?"

"Perhaps she stayed there to help Lu sleep." Peter turns away, fighting a wave of helplessness. He had listened to the announcement over the wireless, interrupting dinner. He had seen the look on Susan's face before she carefully composed herself and picked up Lucy, murmuring something about early to bed and early to rise. Lucy hadn't even protested missing dessert.

He had seen Mum pale and half-rise, then slump back into her seat. Peter had tried to subtly get Edmund to help him with the dishes, but when Edmund refused to take the hint, he had simply done them on his own, kissed Mum's cheek, and gone upstairs, hoping for a few minutes alone.

Unfortunately, he had been followed.

He reaches into his satchel, pulls out a used copy of a Latin II textbook. Flipping through the pages, Peter wonders if they will be evacuated, like the speaker on the radio had urged. He doesn't like the idea of leaving Mum alone, but the plan is only for children to vacate the cities.

"D'you think Dad's alright?"

The book slips from Peter's fingers and crashes to the floor. He bends hastily, picks it up, smooths the pages. His hands are trembling.

"Well, do you?"

Peter bites his lip. He doesn't move, stares fixedly at the battered red cover, at his nails digging into the book and making half-moon dents. He clears his throat, finds his voice. "I don't know, Eddy."

There's a pause.

"Only, I think he must be better off than those going to fight, you know? Since he's not in battle anymore." There's a quality to Edmund's voice that Peter hasn't heard in a while, a sort of desperation he always tries to hide.

Peter forces back a laugh. _Now_ he worries._ Now _he wants comfort. After being such a right beast for months, with his predictions of doom and gloom and his snippy little comments, and he just _knows_ that whatever Edmund says, he _did_ hide Elly the Elephant so well that no one can find her. No one else would have gone near Lucy's precious toy.

But now he wants Peter to tell him that everything will be fine, that it will all work out. Peter closes his eyes and reaches inside himself, tries so hard to find that bottomless well of assurance that Dad always has on hand, but he comes up empty.

Peter is tired, so very tired, of trying. Especially trying for Edmund.

So he gives up.

"You really don't know anything, Edmund. None of us do. Not when this war will end, not where Dad is, not even if he—" Peter stops, then skips over that thought. He can't bring himself to say it. "Now, I've had quite enough of you for tonight. For a good long while, actually, so I guess it's good that you're heading to the Experiment House tomorrow. I'm going to keep my light on a bit longer to finish checking my bag, and you are going to bed."

There's a sound like the air being let out of a balloon. A sudden, short gasp. "But, Peter—"

"I said," he whirls on him, all fire and righteous fury, "that's enough!"

Edmund stares at him, momentarily wide-eyed and wounded, and Peter's heart wrenches. Edmund reaches out for the first time in months and what does Peter do in return? Rebuffs him so emphatically that it might as well have left a bruise. Regretfully, he extends a hand towards his younger brother. "Eddy, I…" The movement snaps something in Edmund. Jaw set, he runs from the room, leaving Peter alone. As he had wanted.

Each thud down the stairs makes Peter wince. He considers going after him, but knows that nothing he says will get through to Edmund now. Blinking back sudden tears of frustration, he slides Latin II back into his bag.

The siren goes off.

He freezes as his heart plummets from his chest, landing somewhere in his midriff with the weight of a large stone. No, this can't be happening. Not so soon. He stares blankly ahead of him, the threat of death ringing in his ears, when suddenly he remembers.

_Susan, she can probably sleep through a bombing, though he hopes he never finds out if that's a fact—_

And—

"_She's dead asleep, hours before normal. Didn't she go to bed with Lucy?"_

Peter bolts into her bedroom, yelling, "Susan!" He stops short. The room is deserted, bed untouched. Whirling around, he flies into Lucy's room, recently made a single just for her, slamming open the door so violently that it bounces off the wall and smacks his shoulder where he stands.

Lucy is curled up in bed, hands pressed to her ears. Susan is slumped against Lucy's pillows, serenely asleep. Had the situation been less dire, Peter might have rolled his eyes, but he doesn't have time. Lunging to her side, he shakes her desperately. "Susan, Susan, wake up!"

Eyes flying open, Susan catches on to what is happening remarkably quickly. She glances down at her nightdress and presses a hand to Lucy's back, holding Peter's gaze. "Stay with her!" she cries over the siren, before running to change. Turning to his baby sister, Peter tugs on her arm.

"Lucy, sweetheart, get up," he begs. Sobbing, Lucy shakes her head and burrows deeper into the covers. "Lu, we've got to move!" He attempts to pick her up.

"Daddy!"

He reels backwards, dropping her on the bed again. "No, Lu, it's Peter. Daddy's not here." His voice wavers. He feels very young. "We have to go, please, Lucy, please!"

"No! I want Daddy! Mummy! Mummy!" He stands helplessly over her, trying to think of what to say.

"Peter!" He groans as Mum calls for him, trembling with indecision. Stay with Lucy or run to Mum?

"Lucy, come on!" Susan has returned, fumbling with the buttons on her cardigan. She gives up and yanks Lucy's covers off, bundling her out of bed despite her screams. The world is spinning and Peter feels dizzy.

"Su—" he whispers.

He doesn't know how she hears him, but she does. Looking up, gaze clear, she grants him the briefest, most beautiful of smiles. "Go."

For an instant the world rights itself. Then he is thundering downstairs and everything is chaos and fear. He hurtles around the corner and collides with Edmund as Mum forces him back from the window, shouting something and shaking him. Peter grunts as Edmund lands heavily in his arms. "Peter, the shelter, quickly! Now!"

He doesn't have time to do anything but grab at Edmund, ordering, "Come on!" He has to trust that the others will get out safely. Mum has told him to keep Eddy safe, and he will. Perhaps if he can get him to the shelter, Peter will be able to come back for the rest of his family.

"Wait, no!" Edmund pleads, struggling to pull away. He was standing at the window before, Peter realizes, hoping to see the planes, to watch the bombs fall from the sky.

Seized by terror, Peter tugs him along. "Come on, leave it!"

They all meet in a crush at the back door. "Come on, quickly!" Mum urges, shunting them across the yard. Lucy moans.

"Run!" Peter bellows, and Susan echoes him, crying for them to hurry. Somewhere nearby, there's an explosion, and Lucy screams. Peter feels sick. His nightmares are coming true, but they're so very different than how he dreamt them. It's all becoming real.

They are nearly at the shelter when Edmund breaks free. "Wait, Dad!" He turns, runs back towards the house. Peter catches his sweater, only for it to rip free from his sweaty hand. He feels a heated tightness spreading in his heart because he knows, he just knows, that if Edmund goes back into that house alone that he won't come out again.

Behind him, Mum screams Edmund's name, a shriek of grief and despair and something springs up inside Peter that has been buried for months. He roars over the siren as it rises in pitch, "I'll get him!" before he follows Edmund into the house. No one will be lost tonight. Not anyone.

Mum calls after him, but her voice is lost in the noise of the planes. "Edmund, get back here!" Peter is going hoarse, his throat scratchy. He follows his brother into the unlit living room, slamming his shin against a table leg in his haste. The light streaming through the window is an unearthly yellowish-green. He feels it again, a strange warmth of warning. He knows. "Edmund get down, you idiot!" Careening into his little brother, Peter carries them both to the floor as the window implodes above their heads, covering them in shards of glass.

As Peter tries once more to haul Edmund to the door, he struggles, slicing open his fingers on the glass-sprinkled floor. Abruptly, the tension in their hold goes slack, and for a wild moment Peter thinks he's lost Edmund in the night. Then he bursts past Peter and into the corridor, clutching a photo frame to his chest. Expelling his air in a fierce gust, Peter staggers behind.

They tear across the grass towards the open, glowing hatch of the shelter. Mum stands in the doorway, urging them on. Shadows cross the ground as the bombers circle, sliced through by searchlights. Peter pushes Edmund into the shelter with such force that he falls to the floor. As Peter follows after, an inexplicable rage wells up in him, so that before he even shuts the shelter door, before he takes a seat beside Susan, he's shouting, the words jumbled together in a mad rush. "Why can't you think about anyone but yourself you're so selfish y-you could've got us killed—!"

"Stop it." Mum's voice is strong but pained. Peter silences at once, attempting to force down his fury. He looks around at them all, at Mum, small in the harsh lamplight; at Lucy, wrapped in a blanket with fingers pressed to her lips; at Susan, the calmest among them, staring at Edmund with pity.

He turns to Edmund last, watches his brother gingerly clutch at the photo frame. Dad smiles around the jagged pieces of glass and Peter wants to howl like an animal, tear at his hair and clothes and get Edmund to _see him._ What does he need a picture of Dad for? It's just a photograph. Aren't lives more important? Isn't Peter, who went in after Edmund, more important?

Mum pulls Edmund into a hug, which he accepts stiffly, curling at her side. The anger swells again, because he is hiding from Peter, hiding from his wrath. He meets Edmund's eyes helplessly, laid bare before him. Can't he see anything?

And Edmund does see, for one instant, all that Peter can't bring himself to say. A spark lights in his eyes and Peter, terrified of the ammunition he's just given his clever and cruel little brother, wards off the attack the only way he knows how: by attacking first.

Straightening, he slams a mask over his features, pulls his most fatherly voice out of his arsenal, and asks with just the right touch of disappointment, "Why can't you just do as you're told?"

He shuts the door while simultaneously throwing the light switch, sending them all into darkness.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Sources for evacuation/bombing information : en . wikipedia wiki / Evacuations _ of _ civilians _ in _ Britain _ during _ World _ War _ II**

**historylearningsite . co . uk / children _ and _ world _ war _ two . htm**

**Since the German Blitz started on September 7****th****, I had the Pevensies heading back to boarding school over that weekend so that they would have time to settle in. This chapter takes place the night of 9/7, and they would be going to school 9/8.**

**Please review!**


	15. Fox's Transition

**Hello, all! I'm sorry for the delay, but here's a new chapter to make it better. Basically, Thanksgiving was 5 days of professors piling on so much homework I couldn't see over the pile of books on my bed, so no chapter got written. But I think this is a piece I can now be proud of, so here we go: an update.  
**

**My apologies to everyone who reviewed without an account, or simply favorited, etc. My email apparently deletes things that are too old or something, so all of the notifications I was saving so that I could go through and thank you are gone in cyberspace and unrecoverable. Please know that I am grateful for every one of you and if you would like to receive a personal thank you, well, drop me a line. I'll be more prompt this time. Here's what I could salvage:  
**

**Guest: Thank you! I love that you took the time to critique, truly critique! Regarding the Experiment House, I'm painting it as a House of Horror because that's how Edmund views it, not necessarily how it is. I'm sure there are very good teachers there, but there are also bullies and the Head lets them get away with things because he sees them as an interesting experiment (Narnia Wiki), hence, Reggie and Co. Edmund doesn't put effort into his classes, so he is unlikely to notice the good teachers, should he have any. I expect Eustace will only get marginally more out of the school, since he doesn't want to be there, but perhaps I'll have him acknowledge the faculty's skill (if it works structurally) in order to make it more canon. I hope this helps make it easier to see as probable. Regarding Lucy, mea culpa. She's probably too young to be at boarding school now, you're right. Maybe, if you squint, she can have the same nerves about boarding school that she does in PC because she considers herself Narnia Lucy and boarding school is a strange concept to her after all those years away? Regarding their mum, I'm not trying to make her negligent. I'm trying to portray her as overwhelmed and frightened. I don't mean to paint her as helpless without a man, but I think that the war has scared her and she is struggling to connect with Edmund (my parents struggled with my brother around his age). I don't see her as a bad person. I hope you've continued to read and get to this response, because I really do appreciate your thoughts.  
**

**BenjaminJonathan: I'm glad you liked it! I feel like Peter and Edmund talk at each other and don't hear each other, so to miss when the other truly needs them would be painful to see. But I'm still happy it comes across so clearly.  
**

**pineapple101: Edmund doesn't know that Peter didn't mean that, unfortunately. But they'll clear it all up at some point.  
**

**narniagirlfan: The author job is sort of my only plan, actually...I'm hoping it pans out!  
**

**dogluver: Edmund's been broken a while, but Peter certainly isn't helping.  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Fourteen: Fox's Transition**_

**En route to Coombe Halt, September 22****nd****, 1940**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

As he stands in Charing Cross Station among the hordes of children, Edmund fights the desperate urge to run. All he wants to do is duck away from his family and tear for the stairs, knocking aside anyone who gets in his way. It's only a few blocks from the train station to his house. He can be inside and under his covers before Mum can hail a taxi.

But he knows he can't get away with it. Peter will catch him; tackle him if he has to, like he did back at the house. Edmund's elbow throbs with the memory of slamming into the floor during the bombing. Peter didn't understand then, and he won't understand now. Edmund stopped trying to explain it all to him long ago.

He shifts in place as Mum fastens a label to Lucy's coat. They are to be tagged, no different from farm animals shipped to factories. That way, Susan has explained, they'll stay together. Edmund wishes they'd go off and leave him alone. He could stay with Mum in the house and the other three could go to that strange Professor in the countryside. He doesn't want to live with a stranger in some unfamiliar house, obeying some stranger's rules.

"Psst, Edmund!"

He jerks around, hardly daring to believe it. O'Toole is casually leaning against the wall, shoulder tearing at a poster reading, "Help the Children! Housing Evacuees is a National Service." As Edmund watches, Reggie pulls out a pen and starts to scribble mustaches on the children in the picture. Standing next to him and pretending not to notice is a strained, petite woman that Edmund thinks is likely Mrs. O'Toole from the brief glimpse he had of her at the end of term. He grins and begins to edge towards his friend.

Peter's hand clamps down on his shoulder, hard. Edmund halts, refusing to look at his brother. Though Peter doesn't speak, the message is clear: Stay. Don't even think about it.

Breathing sharply through his nose, Edmund turns back to his family. In the heavy silence, he whines, "Country's boring."

Mum glances up from pinning on his tag, but says nothing.

Susan frowns. "Boring and _safe_, Edmund," she emphasizes.

He glares. "If Dad were here, he wouldn't make us go." This is Mum's fault. There's no one to keep her in check. Peter couldn't do it, couldn't be a proper man of the house, and now she's sending them off. She doesn't care how they feel—how Edmund feels—about being tossed away.

"If Dad was here, it would mean the war was over and we wouldn't have to go," Peter is losing patience. Edmund doesn't care, and is about to tell him so, when Mum interrupts.

"You will listen to your brother, won't you, Edmund?"

Her voice catches, and Edmund glances at her in surprise. When their eyes meet, she reaches for him, presses him close. He almost lets her, then remembers Reggie watching behind him. Making a face, he pulls away. Mum pauses, and he sees her heart break in her eyes. She kisses him quickly and he stands stiffly, hoping Reggie won't laugh at him for it.

When Mum pulls back, it is Peter she turns to. He sneers as Peter all but collapses into her arms, holding her tightly. Trust Peter to need comfort. Well, he, Edmund, doesn't.

"Promise me you'll look after the others," Mum whispers, but Edmund can hear her under the rattle of luggage carts and the whistle of the train. He rolls his eyes. If Peter tries to "take care" of him, he'll punch him square in the face. Teach him to baby a boy ten years old, almost a man.

"I will, Mum," Peter croaks, and Edmund clenches his teeth. He's not Dad. He's not Dad. He's not—

The rest of the goodbyes pass in a blur, until the shrill whistle blast of the conductor ends all conversation. Edmund's stomach knots. He ignores it. Mum takes a step back, looks at them all as if memorizing their faces. Edmund stares steadfastly at the floor.

He regrets this later, even long after he forgets what he is regretting. The feeling of having failed to do something lastingly important lingers.

"Alright then," Mum breathes, "off you go."

It takes only a moment, but looking at that train slowly filling with children to be carted off to who-knows-where, Edmund decides he's absolutely not going. He lunges for the edge of the crowd, eyes latched on freedom.

Peter grabs his arm so tightly that he knows it'll bruise. Edmund almost falls, rights himself with difficulty. As if he had been heading towards the train in the first place, Edmund snarls, "Oi, get off! I know how to get on a train by myself!" When Peter merely tightens his grasp, staring straight ahead, he says louder, "Get off!"

"Your ticket, please," a woman says, holding out her hand. Peter doesn't reply. "Your ticket, please!" Edmund frowns, looking up at his brother, then following his eyes along the platform.

There are soldiers, young soldiers, marching past.

Suddenly all Edmund wants is to get on the train. "Peter!" Susan snaps, wrestling the papers from his hand and passing them along with apologies.

"Thank you," Peter replies distractedly, still staring after the soldiers. Susan clasps Edmund's hand and tugs the pair away. Edmund, glancing back at Peter's thoughtful, guilty face, doesn't resist. Lucy winds her fingers through Peter's. Only then does he come alive, bending down and speaking earnestly to her. "We have to stick together now. Come on, everything's going to be fine." He's in control again, grown-up Peter. Edmund jerks his hands free and stuffs them in his pockets. Peter doesn't even notice.

Swept up by the tide of children, Edmund is foisted onto the train. He cranes his neck, searching for Reggie, but doesn't see him anywhere. Peter pushes towards a window, leaning bodily out to call one last goodbye to Mum. Susan and Lucy follow suit. Edmund steps forward to do the same, only to be shoved aside by the force of Peter's waving. He tries briefly to get past, then gives up and slumps against the wall to wait.

Another shrieking, steamy blast and the train jerks. The window rattles and Peter turns away, eyes ahead. "Come on," he says finally, taking Lucy's hand again. She looks up at him trustingly as he starts down the corridor. It is Susan who spares him half a glance, a tiny jerk of her head that barely shifts her hair, before continuing on.

He waits until she has passed before darting to the window. He all but falls out of it looking for her, but Mum has passed out of sight.

"Edmund!"

Blinking hard to clear his vision, he turns to follow her voice into a compartment, clutching his suitcase, white-knuckled. Peter turns to take the valise from him and he yanks it back to lift it up himself.

Two silent children watch them from across the aisle. They are small and solemn and look so very alone.

To avoid their wide eyes, Edmund presses his face to the windowpane. He does this for hours, ignoring Susan as she reads quietly aloud, ignoring Peter's soft-voiced commentary, Lucy trailing her fingers across the map above their heads. He loses himself in the blurry trees and white clouds of steam until something moves on the edge of his vision. Twisting, he finds himself face to face with Miss Pennyfeather, clothes grubby and smile bright. He eyes the doll, then Lucy, uncertainly. She shakes Miss Pennyfeather gently, eyes sparkling. Hesitantly, he takes the doll from her hands and begins to tuck it against his side.

Across from him, the elder of the two children, a girl with braids, fights a smile. Flushing, Edmund stifles the urge to hurl Miss Pennyfeather out of the window. Instead, he passes the doll to the lonely-looking boy sitting next to the girl with braids. The boy takes it instantly, crushing it to his chest, too young to care about anything but the comfort Miss Pennyfeather brings. Lucy makes a small, involuntary sound of distress, and the boy looks up worriedly. Edmund stares at his sister triumphantly. She smiles wetly and nods for the boy to keep the doll. Edmund's mouth tastes funny. He turns to stare out the window again.

By the time the two children leave, Susan has given up reading and they are all sitting in silence. Miss Pennyfeather departs still clutched in the boy's hand. Peter shoots Edmund a scathing glare. He feels it burning into the back of his head. He doesn't turn around.

Their arrival in Coombe Halt is unheralded. Unnoticed, in fact. Edmund looks around the deserted platform, the empty road, and smiles. He hides it quickly when Susan comments, "The Professor knew we were coming…"

He glances in mock concern at the tag pinned tightly to his coat. "Perhaps we've been incorrectly labeled." He's already planning the adventures he's going to have wandering through the countryside. The tales he'll have to tell when he gets back…

And then the horse-drawn cart comes around the bend in the road, bringing with it a woman with a face like a sour lemon. They pile in, sufficiently cowed by her sharp words and bitter expression, and as the grand old mansion comes into view, Edmund thinks that maybe it's alright that his countryside escapades were cut short. Maybe, he thinks, staring up at the stone and brick façade, he can have plenty of adventures here.

When Susan gets scolded for nearly touching an "artefact," Edmund and Peter share a quiet grin. Then, realizing what they've just done, both boys look away.

Maybe, Edmund muses, being here won't be so bad after all.

Then Peter curtly tells him to hurry along, Susan shoots him a pointed look, and it all comes crashing down again. Peter and Susan hate him. Likely Lucy does too. There will be no adventures here unless he makes his own.

Maybe, Edmund realizes as he watches Susan pin up her map of the war front and Peter distractedly help Lucy make her bed with the sheets inside out, that won't be so difficult after all.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/**  
**

**Please review!**


	16. Lion's Lull

**Hello, all! Question to answer in your reviews: Movie-Edmund first enters the wardrobe by following Lucy in at night. Book-Edmund first enters the wardrobe by following Lucy during another game of hide and seek. What is your preference? Melding these stories is harder than I thought…**

**pineapple101: Yep, I'm back! Thanks for reading and reviewing. I really do appreciate it! I'm glad you liked the chapter. I want to hug Edmund too ;)**

**narniagirlfan: Hello! I'm pleased you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you for reading and reviewing! I really do appreciate it. I hope you like this next one, too. Sorry it took so long**

**dogluver: I like calling him Eddy, too. But Peter's doing it less and less. Edmund's not his precious baby brother anymore :( Now that I'm home and on break, everything's great for me lol. Thank you for reading and reviewing. I really do appreciate it!**

**Bookchomper101: Haha, I'm glad you're so enthusiastic about where this story is heading! I'm excited, too. White Witch will make her entrance shortly. In the meantime, thanks for reading and reviewing! I really do appreciate it. Enjoy this update!**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Fifteen: Lion's Lull**_

**The Professor's House, September 23****rd****—onward****, 1940**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Their very first day at the Professor's house, Peter is woken early by Mrs. Macready pounding on the bedroom door. While he moans and covers his head with a pillow against the noise, Susan manages to right herself and answer the knocking. The discussion is surprisingly quiet, so much so that Peter very nearly falls back to sleep; until the blankets are yanked from his grip and the pillow removed from his head.

"Get up, Peter, quickly!"

He rolls onto his back, struggling to form words. "Su, wha—?"

He yelps as she wrenches open the curtains and sharp, early morning sunlight floods the room. "Susan!"

"The Professor expects us at breakfast in twenty minutes," she crisply informs him, bundling Lucy into the bathroom. Upon letting go of her younger sister, the little girl sleepily begins to topple. Peter points, garbling inarticulately, and she whirls to set her right. "Get up, Peter. I'll take care of Lu n' me. You get Edmund."

He does not respond, closes his eyes resolutely against the unwelcome day, and starts to return to dreamland.

"UP, PETER." He yowls to life as Susan upends a cupful of water onto his face. She runs shrieking into the bathroom as he chases her, growling, only retreating when she slams the door and locks it. He bangs threateningly on the wood a few times, grinning at Lucy's gleeful screams.

"Would you all just shut it? A chap can't get any sleep around here." Peter turns to find a soured Edmund sitting up in bed, hair sticking up and mouth twisted. He laughs.

"Morning, sleepyhead." Peter walks back to his bed, flings open the suitcase he hasn't bothered to unpack yet, starts, tugging out clothes. "Get dressed, will you? The Professor is expecting us."

"I will not." Edmund's tone is positively frigid.

Peter's spine stiffens. He does not rise. He will not rise.

"Well, you don't really have a choice, Edmund, so get up. We'll get this out of the way and have the rest of the day to ourselves to explore this old place." He pulls his nightshirt over his head and wanders to the window, peering out at the grounds. "We can have proper expeditions here. Pack a picnic and not come back all day." He scans the horizon, notices the dark clouds looming behind the sun. "Or perhaps that will have to wait until tomorrow."

"I'm not going to this stinking breakfast."

The bathroom door opens and Susan emerges, tying a bright ribbon into her hair. "You are, too, Edmund, and that's final. I'll hear no more protests out of you."

"Stop it!" Edmund snarls, "You're not Mum!"

She rolls her eyes, tidying up her and Lucy's beds. "Honestly, Edmund, you can be so childish sometimes."

"Shut up!" he shouts, "Just shut up!"

In the silence, Lucy emerges, toothpaste foaming around her mouth. "Susan," she begins indistinctly, "I can't find my drinking cup—oh…" She trails off, looking down at the white dribble that has fallen on her sweater. "I'm sorry."

Heaving a sigh, Susan ushers Lucy back into the bathroom. "I left your cup on the shelf, Lucy…" She closes the door behind them.

Peter has returned to his bed, is buttoning up his shirt and simultaneously attempting to wriggle out of his pajama bottoms without losing his underwear as well.

"I'm not going, I tell you." Edmund folds his arms across his chest, jutting out his chin.

Stepping into his trousers, Peter doesn't look at him. "Fine."

"Fine?"

"Yes, fine. I'm not fighting with you anymore. If this is how you are going to act today, the Professor shouldn't see you." He props his foot on the bed to tie his shoe, removes it hastily when Susan sails past and smacks his shin as a reprimand. Hopping, his straightens the laces and switches legs. "We'll come by after breakfast and see if you want to join us when we're heading outside." Finished, he takes the mint Susan proffers and grabs her and Lucy's hands. "Bye."

The room is silent behind him as he marches the girls out, slamming the door afterwards.

Breakfast with the Professor is strange, but not uncomfortable. The old man with wild white hair watches them wide-eyed from behind his spectacles. He asks them a few questions about what they are learning in school, looks shocked by what they tell him, and disappears behind his newspaper, leaving Peter to watch the daylight get swallowed by the storm, then the rain to start spattering the windows. Lucy squeaks at the first thunderclap, and the Professor looks at her over the top of the paper. His eyes flash, and he dismisses them. Exchanging goodbyes, Susan stands, politely holding out her hand for the Professor to shake. As if she had given him a secret sign, the Professor abruptly stands and takes her hand in his, raising it to his lips and bowing low. Susan starts, mouth agape and cheeks flushed. The Professor's eyes narrow.

"My goodness," he murmurs, "what do they teach in schools these days?"

They all but flee the room.

The days pass slowly after that. Susan tries to interest him in the dictionary game again, but Peter can hardly stand it. When the sun shines, he leads them out to traverse the rolling hills that surround the Professor's house, to peer into sheds filled with gardening equipment, cricket gear, and what may be several suits of armor bent horribly out of shape. Susan decries their condition, but Edmund very reasonably points out that the Professor has other armor inside his house, why shouldn't he just leave the extras lying around?

It rains again. Peter has not seen the Professor since the breakfast, though he often encounters Mrs. Macready outside the door of whatever room they are in. On a rainy day, she would normally hover worse than ever, but the Macready, as Edmund calls her, is laid up with a headache and so the four of them are quite unobserved. He allows Susan to play her dictionary game, because it diverts her from scolding Edmund, who is viciously vandalizing the underside of what is likely an old and expensive chair.

He allows Lucy to coerce him into playing hide and seek, only to regret it a few minutes later when she runs up breathless and strangely damp-footed, claiming to have been gone for hours and so glad to be back. He does not understand, thinks she is trying to fool him. Because she is his baby sister, he goes along with it, lets her drag him (and consequently an annoyed Susan and sarcastic Edmund) to a big empty room that holds only a dead bluebottle and an old wardrobe.

Susan sticks her head inside the closet and comes back out smiling. "Why, you goose, it's just an ordinary wardrobe; look! there's the back of it." They all look in and Peter raps his knuckles against the frame. Behind them, Edmund sneezes at the dust.

"A jolly good hoax, Lu, you have really taken us in, I must admit. We half-believed you." Peter ruffles Lucy's burnished hair and closes the wardrobe. He attempts to throw the sheet back over it, then gives it up as a bad job when the cloth flops over his shoulder instead. He begins to leave when Lucy's anguished cry stops him.

"But I wasn't imagining!"

He turns tiredly, wondering if this is something he should be worried about.

Susan's response is sharp, angry, even. "That's enough, Lucy." She looks frightened.

Lucy is horrified, fighting tears. "I wouldn't lie about this!"

"Well," Edmund says suddenly, shrugging, "I believe you."

Peter watches him warily as Lucy's eyebrows contract, confused. "You do?"

"Of course," Edmund smirks, and Peter tenses. "Didn't I tell you all about the football field in the bathroom cupboard?" He catches Peter's gaze and a semblance of a smile stretches his face all wrong. Peter doesn't have the energy to yell.

"Oh, would you just stop?" he asks, ignoring the way Edmund's face whitens and his eyes go round with shock. "Just have to make everything worse, don't you?"

"It was just a joke," Edmund hunches his shoulders defensively and Peter can't help himself. He's won the round, but he wants to be sure. He kicks Edmund while he's down.

"When are you going to learn to grow up?" Lifting his chin and standing tall, he looks down at Edmund with all the authority Dad possesses. It feels strange, dirty.

All vulnerability vanishes from Edmund's bearing. He's furious and shouting, advancing on Peter with such intent that Peter finds himself backing up until he nearly hits the wall. Edmund runs away before Peter can master the fear pooling in his stomach. He raises his head to find Susan glaring at him, and swallows hard.

"Well, that was nicely handled." She whirls and exits as well, likely to find Edmund. He doesn't try stopping her.

"But…" Lucy's tiny voice draws him back. "It really was there." She stands alone, and he wonders if she's supposed to be that small. He wishes he knew, the way parents know, when something isn't right. He wishes he knew how to make things right without making them worse. Instead, he shuts her down.

"Susan's right, Lucy," he says firmly, "that's enough."

When he leaves the room, for the first time, his baby sister does not follow.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Please review! **

**Once again: Question to answer in your reviews: Movie-Edmund first enters the wardrobe by following Lucy in at night. Book-Edmund first enters the wardrobe by following Lucy during another game of hide and seek. What is your preference? Melding these stories is harder than I thought…**


	17. Fox's Fall

**pineapple101: Peter's sick and tired of having to be an adult before his time. Sometimes, he just snaps :/  
**

**narniagirlfan: I think you should feel sorry for Peter. He's pretty lost. Thanks for recognizing that it's not all black and white!  
**

**dogluver: Peter's life is upsetting, yes, lol. Sorry, no gratuitous fluff. It wouldn't fit in the story at the moment. Once the boys reconcile, however, there'll be plenty!  
**

**bookchomper101: Thanks for your enthusiasm! Here's the long awaited meeting...!  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Sixteen: Fox's Fall**_

**The Professor's House, October 1****st****, 1940**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

The night begins like any other in this too-dark, too-quiet house, though what begins the night, Edmund is unsure. Perhaps the night starts when they finish supper in the high-ceilinged dining room but must sit, hands folded in their laps, until the Macready dismisses them to find their way with increasing surety through the shadowy halls to their rooms.

No, maybe it is later, when he is lying on his back under the antique chair, expanding his carving of Peter being burned by a dragon. He chips away at the reddish wood with a metal file, detailing fine veins on the dragon's wings, stretching Peter's mouth wide in a caricature of a scream. As he goes to lengthen the flames licking up Peter's side, he takes off too large a splinter and wood bits fly everywhere. He chokes, sitting up too quickly and banging his head on the bottom of the chair. His eye screws shut as he feels sudden pressure inside it, where a piece of wood has gotten lodged. Tamping down on his cry of pain, he rolls out from under the chair and staggers to the bathroom, passing Lucy on the way.

"Are you all right, Edmund?" she asks, half-turning, eyes wide.

"'M fine!" he manages, "Go away!" Slamming the door and locking it, he bends over the sink, splashing water frantically against his face as hot tears streak his cheeks. He can hardly see the wood speck in the mirror, struggles to get it out on his own. He will not call for help, he does not need help. Does not need the inevitable lecture. He can take care of himself, thanks very much.

He stays in the bathroom so long that Peter, the last to go to sleep, knocks on the door and asks, exasperated, if he'll ever get a chance to wash up. The answer Edmund gives is not promising, and Peter huffs and stomps away. Edmund glares furiously down the drain. If Peter feels like he needs to be a girl and brush his teeth and comb his hair and all that rubbish, he can do it in the girls' bathroom. Sitting down on the toilet with the lid firmly closed, he blinks hard, waiting.

It takes him a few minutes to realize that the wood is out, is sitting just under his eye, damp and a bit bloody. Edmund presses the the splinter to his finger, then flicks it across the room, where it pings against the tiles. Standing, he unlocks the bathroom door and pushes it open slowly, meeting resistance. Poking his head out and around, he finds his pyjamas are folded in a neat pile on the floor. Picking them up, he retreats into the bathroom to change and wash up. He takes his sweet time, too, because he knows that Peter is asleep and there is no one to tell him to 'Hurry along, Edmund,' and he can go to bed when he wants. He doesn't have to go to bed at all if he doesn't want to. The thought delights him.

Shrugging into his dressing gown, Edmund kicks his clothes under the sink and flushes the toilet just for the sound. As the pipes gurgle, he glances into the mirror, then suddenly shies away. He pauses, confused. He doesn't know why he did that, which annoys him. Grumbling and wondering what he can do unobserved with the hours that stretch before him, he nudges open the door and steps into the hall, fiddling with the tie on his robe.

The shuffling startles him and he looks up, struggling to focus in the darkness. Only it is not so dark as it was before, nor as it should be at this hour. A burning taper illuminates Lucy, trundling around the corner in her galoshes and pink robe. Edmund's shock turns to wicked glee. With the elders asleep, he is free to toy with Lucy as he pleases. Just how long, he wonders, can he make her go on about her magical world without realizing he doesn't believe a word of it?

He follows her around the corner and down the next hallway, up a few vaguely familiar stairs and across a landing to turn into the final hall. She speeds up, but he maintains his pace, tracking her without being noticed. He whirls the corner and freezes, because Lucy is nowhere to be seen. Edmund hesitates, one slippered foot raised uncertainly, before he hears a creaking snick from somewhere in front of him and understands. She is in one of the rooms. Emboldened, he pads down the hall to where one of the doors is slightly ajar. Pulling it open a bit more, he slides through, and looks around, bemused.

Lucy is not here.

Brow furrowed, he calls her name, closing the door behind him in case someone could hear.

There is no answer.

He looks around slowly. She went in here, into this very room, and now all that he can see is a dead bluebottle on the windowsill, an unlit candle and a sheet on the floor, and that wardrobe she went on about with the door tugged partly open. His eyes widen. Of course! She's inside, tapping at the back, looking for her magic country. Well, he'll give her quite the scare.

In two strides he's across the room, gripping the door and flinging it wide.

"Boo!"

Lucy doesn't scream or start crying. In fact, Lucy makes no noise at all, as if she's not even there. He frowns, glancing behind him, half expecting to see her trying to sneak out to tell Peter she's caught her naughty brother out of bed.

She's not behind him.

It doesn't cross his mind that she could be in another room, that he could be dreaming the whole thing. He doesn't consider waiting until morning and asking Lucy what she was doing. Instead, breathing out her name like a question, he steps into the wardrobe, one final trick up his sleeve.

"I hope you're not afraid of the dark," he calls, knowing that night and the absence of light is one of the few things that truly terrifies his sister. Firmly, loudly, he shuts the wardrobe door, encasing himself in darkness. He waits a moment too long for her to give up and burst out in front of him, demanding he stop.

She does not appear.

The wardrobe is only so big, he reasons, he can find her in an instant, catch her and tease her until she's red in the face and sniffling, until he has her taking the grief for sending him on this stupid chase tonight.

"Lucy…" he steps forward, pushing at the musty furs that brush his face and hands like wild animals. His heart flares as he imagines live animals all around him, watching him, and he steps forward again, braced to hit the back wall. Instead, he rears back as something pricks at his eyes. Pain too soon remembered causes him to reach out blindly, wondering who makes a coat out of porcupine quills, and his fingers catch on something slenderly round, rough, and solid. He jerks back and around, gasping, thinking he has touched a bone, but finds only a branch. He presses on, resolutely ignoring the fact that he just found a branch in a wardrobe, refusing to think about how he can suddenly see in what was utter black, but wondering if this isn't some sort of trap being set for him. Peter would think of something like this, set it up to show him his place. Lucy would be easy to trick into helping catch Edmund, but he can't imagine her staying quiet once she realizes what's going on, how bewildered he is. She always ruins jokes because she can't wait for the punch line.

"Lucy!" he yells, and his voice echoes when before it was muffled. He shivers—from cold, he tells himself, because it is strangely cold in this wardrobe—stumbles backward, the floorboards soft under his feet. His heart is pounding in his ears and he thinks this has gone far enough and intends to tell everyone the jig is up, joke's on Edmund, but all he can force from between chattering teeth is a stuttered, "L-Lucy!" and then his ankle catches on something hard and he is falling, falling backwards and hitting the ground so that the air rushes from his chest and, looking around, he can't remember how to get it back again.

He is lying on snow. It is daylight. There are trees everywhere, fur coats just beyond his feet, and the woods—whatever woods these are, and how can there be woods anyway, he must be going mad—are utterly silent. Edmund rights himself, looking about him. This can't be real, it simply can't. That would mean…that would mean Lucy was right.

"Lucy," he tries again, feeling he'd much rather face this strange forest with her than alone, "where are you?"

Not even a bird stirs at his shout. Lucy's sulking, angry for not being believed. He can just imagine her crouched behind a tree, arms folded tight over her chest, listening to him and refusing to appear. She probably wants a proper apology, and for a moment he's willing to give it to her, if only she'll show up. He tries again, stepping further away from the wardrobe, "Lucy? I think I believe you now…"

Edmund continues on into a fog. He flounders at the sudden lack of visibility, then catches sight of something bright up ahead. Gradually, a lamppost comes into view, and he stares in shock. A lamppost. What is a lamppost doing in a wood? Covered in a light dusting of snow, like everything around here, apparently, but with a vibrant flame, he cranes his neck to look at it as he pauses. He squints into the fire and feels a chill up his neck. _Not that way._ Hunching his shoulders, he turns around, back the way he came, and veers off to the right.

Had he gone but a little farther in, he would have seen Lucy's prints in the snow, might have caught up to her and met Mr. Tumnus, and things might have been very different indeed.

He pulls his hands inside the sleeves of his dressing gown and treks up a hill. It plateaus into what seems like a road. Roads mean civilization. He considers which way to go.

From the right, Edmund hears the crack of a whip. He turns toward the sound, staring into the fog. There's a jingling like sleigh bells, and he thinks wildly of Santa Claus. Though it makes no sense now, he calls his sister's name one last time.

"Lucy?"

He tumbles backwards into the snow as a sleigh drawn by white reindeer rushes past. Edmund fully expects it to continue on, as the cars in London do when you jump out of the street as they drive by, but instead the sleigh pulls to a stop. His stomach flutters as he sits up, staring at the back of the sleigh, over the top of which he can just make out what look like icicles, sticking straight up into the sky.

A small, old man sticks his head around the side of the sleigh, staring at Edmund. They eye each other for a moment, and then the man leaps from the sleigh with far more agility than Edmund had anticipated and _runs_ at him, brandishing a lethal whip.

Edmund bolts, but the snow slows his movements. Before he gets more than a few strides, he hears a cry of triumph behind him and the whip coils around his ankle, twisting him back into the snow. The man leaps atop him, drawing a knife—who carries knives?!—and Edmund doesn't believe this is happening, can't believe this is happening. He flings his hands up, catching on the man's astoundingly long beard, and shrieks, "Leave me alone!"

"What is it now, Ginarrbrik?" The voice that emerges from the sleigh is cool, cultured, bored. Edmund recognizes that tone. It is the one Reggie uses when he really can't be bothered with what his friends are doing, but thinks he might have to step in because they're going a little far. He seizes his chance.

"Make him let me go, I didn't do anything wrong!" he cries, a strained whine of terror, pushing at the man who still holds his cold, curved blade to his throat.

"How dare you address the Queen of Narnia!" The man snarls, his voice high and scratchy. Edmund stares at him in disbelief. Queen of where now?

"I didn't know!" he protests, but he despairs, because at least in England, not-knowing a law didn't mean you weren't obliged to obey it.

The man seems to come to the same conclusion as he snarls, "You will know it better hereafter!" and rears back to stab him. Actually stab him. Edmund gasps, twisting to the side, fingers digging desperately into the snow. He's going to die, he's going to die in a country that no one except Lucy knows about, and he's going to die alone—

"Wait."

The man freezes and turns. Edmund lifts his head from the snow and feels his heart tighten in his chest.

Standing before him is the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. Her skin is pale as the snow around her, her eyes dark like smoke. Her hair is golden and spills over her shoulder in coils. Rising from her hair, glinting in the bright light, is a crown of icicles. She regards him steadily as he sits up, entranced. When she speaks, her voice is sleek and curious.

"What are you?" She looks hard at him, as if trying to catalogue his species. Edmund cannot hold her gaze.

"I'm—I'm—my name's Edmund," he rattles out awkwardly. He focuses on her dress, blue like a glacier; on her scepter, throwing off rays like a diamond under light.

The woman, taller than any he knows, frowns slightly. "Is that how you address a Queen?" she asks, her question holding a bite of warning. Edmund has heard that warning before, knows how to answer it. He straightens up a bit, meeting her eyes.

"I beg your pardon…your Majesty. I didn't know."

The excuse moves her no more than it moved the little old man. She purses her lips. He tenses. "I repeat: what are you? Are you a great overgrown Dwarf that has cut off his beard?"

Beside her now, Ginarrbrik grimaces. "Your Most Wonderful Exaltedness, he is not one of my kind," he protests.

"Silence!" He obeys.

Edmund swallows hard, finally understanding, at least a little, what she is trying to ask. "No, your Majesty, I haven't got a beard. I'm a boy."

"A boy!" The Queen takes a step back, then forward, eyes wide. "Do you mean you are a Son of Adam?"

Edmund shakes his head. "No, your Majesty, my father's name is Richard—"

"Yes, but," the Queen cuts him off, watching him intently, "you are descended from Adam, are you not?"

Edmund thinks about it, remembers the old stories and the first man and feels more confused than ever. Aren't those just stories? The Queen is asking him seriously, must truly believe it, and if one believes that sort of thing, then, well, "Yes, your Majesty, I think so. I'm human."

She looks as though she has been turned to stone, so still she stands. Then the Queen shifts, lifting her chin. "And how, Edmund, did you come to enter my dominion?"

He frowns. A question even more puzzling than the first. "I'm—I'm not sure. I was just following my sister—"

"Your sister?" she cuts him off, her voice wild. Then, she calms. "How many are you?"

He thinks for a moment she means people in the world, and he doesn't even know what number to give her, but then he thinks about her previous questions, how literal she is, and reconsiders.

"Four," Edmund answers quickly. Ginarrbrik glances at the Queen as she raises her eyebrows, lips parted. She looks intrigued, and he thinks this may save him, so he says anything and everything that he knows. He tells her about Lucy coming once before, about meeting a faun named Tumnus, though how she spoke to a baby deer he doesn't know, really, starts talking about Peter and Susan and is just getting sidetracked onto a rant when she stops him again.

"Edmund," she smiles, and it is a wonderful smile, inviting and coy. He thinks of Edith Winterblott and smiles back. "You look so cold," the Queen says, then gestures towards her sleigh. "Will you come sit with me?"

He hesitates, but Ginarrbrik presses the knife into his back as the Queen turns away and he knows he doesn't have a choice. Hoping they don't drive off somewhere and he can't figure out how to get back, Edmund clambers up to sit beside the Queen. She wraps her white fur warmly around him and smiles again. His stomach does flips.

"Now, how about something how to drink?" She is kind, Edmund realizes. His teeth knock against each other as he shivers. Jerkily, he nods his head.

"Yes, please, your Majesty."

She turns away from him and he leans around the furs to watch as she pulls a small vial from her dress and flicks it open with a taloned finger. She tips the vial forward and Edmund watches a glittering, green drop fall into the snow. In a moment, a goblet grows up in its place, filled with steaming, foamy liquid.

Ginarrbrik bends and picks up the goblet, reaching past the Queen to hand it to Edmund, whose eyes go wide as he remembers the queen's clarifying question.

Ginarrbrik isn't a little old man, he's a _dwarf_.

To distract himself from this alarming realization, Edmund quickly asks, "How did you do that?" He slurps at the drink as the Queen answers, foam sticking to his lip.

"I can make anything you like."

A host of possibilities run through his mind, but he settles for what he thinks sounds easy. "Can you make me taller?"

She laughs, like shards of ice tumbling off a roof, and says, more specifically, "Anything you'd like to eat."

Edmund barely has to think. With the rationing, and the lack of Reggie at his side, he knows exactly what he wants to eat. "…Turkish Delight?"

The Queen's eyebrows shoot upwards and his fingers tighten around the goblet. It's as though she can see the history behind the food he requests, would have known if he'd asked for beef stew or a bowl of ice cream exactly why he liked each food and what it reminded him of. She doesn't comment, though, as another drop of emerald liquid falls onto the snow. With the crackle of a fast frost, a glittering tin sits on the ground. Ginarrbrik scoops it up, and Edmund eagerly trades the drink for the food, opening the lid and unwrapping the sugary treats. As he bites into the first saccharine coating, a contented sound escapes his lips. These are marvelous. Absolutely amazing. Far better than any Reggie has given him. He's been holding out. How can he possibly eat any kind of Turkish Delight but this again?

"Edmund," the Queen begins, and he feels a flicker of annoyance. Can't she see he's busy? "I would very much like to meet the rest of your family."

The annoyance grows, because the Queen is being pushy, and he doesn't like it. Why isn't he good enough? He's more interesting than Peter, Susan, and Lucy combined, and he tells her so.

"Oh, I'm sure they're not nearly as delightful as you are," she replies soothingly, wiping his mouth with Ginarrbrik's red hat. He almost protests, because he's far too grown up to be babied like this, but her touch is soft and she doesn't make him stop eating, so he says nothing. "But you see, Edmund," she continues, "I have no children of my own. And you are the sort of boy who I could see, maybe, one day, becoming Prince of Narnia. Maybe even King."

This gives him pause. He, Edmund, King? He barely knows this woman, but she wants to place him in such a powerful position? It's hard to believe, but it feels incredibly good. Like his birthright.

"Of course, you'd have to bring your family," she rushes, misinterpreting, and Edmund falters.

"Oh," he sighs, looking down, "do you mean Peter would be King, too?"

"No, no!" she laughs again, stroking his hair, "But a king needs servants."

The thought of Lucy and Susan washing his clothes and making his bed, of Peter kneeling to slide shoes onto his King's feet brings a grin to Edmund's face. "I guess I could bring them," he acquiesces, biting into another Turkish Delight.

To his disappointment, the Queen takes the tin away, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. He leans close, only marginally surprised that she does not radiate warmth. "You don't have to tell them about me, Edmund. Shall we keep it a surprise? I'm sure a clever boy like you can figure out how to get them to my house anyway. If you tell them where you're going, they may not want to come. You say your sister has met a Faun, and Fauns tell such nasty stories. She'll have me all wrong. But you know better, don't you, Dear One?" He hums his agreement as she points to the horizon. "Do you see those two hills? My house is right between them." She pushes lightly at his back. He stands, feeling sluggish. "You'd love it there, Edmund. It has whole rooms simply stuffed with Turkish Delight."

Facing the beautiful Queen, made brave by the food and drink in his belly, Edmund asks, "Couldn't I have some more now?"

"No!" For an instant her face is cruel and terrifying. He steps back, suddenly nauseous and afraid. The Queen's eyes fall closed. When she opens them, she is smooth and smiling again. "Don't want to ruin your appetite," she murmurs, and he accepts this naturally, because it's what a mother would say. She's been like a mother this whole time, maybe a better one than his real Mum. He could see himself as Prince, living with the Queen, eating Turkish Delight, and listening to her tell him he was smart, and clever, and handsome all day long. "Besides," she brings him back, and he watches her, unaware of the frown creasing his face, "you and I are going to be seeing each other again soon, aren't we?" She relaxes as the frown disappears and Edmund steps down from the sleigh.

"I hope so, your Majesty." Any doubt he has is gone. She wants to see him again. She wants him.

Ginarrbrik is back in the sleigh, gathering up the reigns. He cracks his whip, but Edmund cannot tear his eyes away from the Queen.

"Until then, Dear One," she sits up tall in her seat, smiling again, "I'm going to miss you."

His eyes shine like stars as the sleigh jingles away down the road. He watches it disappear, wishing he was still wrapped in the Queen's furs and traveling back to her house with her.

"Edmund?" He whirls, the sudden turn making him feel sick again. His chest tightens as Lucy runs towards him out of the woods, kicking up sprays of snow behind her. "Oh, Edmund, you got in, too, isn't it wonderful?" She slams into him, wrapping her arms around his waist in a vice-like grip. He panics, feeling trapped.

"Where have you been? I've been looking for you everywhere," he grouses, pushing at her arms until she lets go. She looks up apologetically.

"If I'd known you got in, I would have waited for you," she beams, bouncing on her toes. "I've been having lunch with Mr. Tumnus, the Faun, and he's very well. The White Witch hasn't done anything to him for letting me go, so he thinks she doesn't know and perhaps everything will be all right!"

Edmund has been scrubbing at his face, trying to wipe off evidence of the Turkish Delight before Lucy notices, but now he looks up, nervous. There are witches here?

"She calls herself the Queen of Narnia," Lucy explains, eyes darkening as she leans forward to whisper to him, "but she really isn't. She can turn people to stone and do all kinds of horrible things. The White Witch has done a spell so that it's always winter in Narnia, but never Christmas, and she drives around on a sleigh drawn by reindeer and guided by a Dwarf. She has a wand that she always carries, and wears a crown of icicles."

By now, Edmund feels properly sick. The Queen he met fits Lucy's description perfectly, but he cannot believe what Lucy says about her. She was so very kind to him, and promised to make him Prince, which a false Queen couldn't possibly do. Besides, the Queen had told him not to believe Lucy, since fauns tell stories that aren't necessarily true, and that makes sense, anyway. Lucy wouldn't know better than to befriend the first person she met, even if she met a cheat and a liar.

"Are you all right, Edmund?" Lucy asks suddenly, watching him carefully. She looks like Susan when she does that, and he wipes at his mouth once more, swallowing back a burning sensation in his throat.

"Well, what do you expect? It's freezing!" He rubs his arms, staring up at the sky, at the trees, anything to get away from Lucy's eyes, which seem to know so much more than they should. "How do we get out of here?"

She frowns slightly, as if she knows something's off but can't quite put her finger to it, then grabs his hand. "Come on," she tugs him down the road, and Edmund tries hard to not cling to her like a lifeline.

As they near the lamppost, Edmund begins to think hard. He knows now that he was wrong and Lucy was right, and from the way she's chattering on, he can tell she's going to go straight to Peter and Susan to tell them her country is back. He's going to look absolutely horrible for not believing her, and Peter will get angry at him, like as not. It seems about all Peter does these days. So he must come up with something quick as they push through the branches. He starts as they turn to fur coats against his fingers, and then they step out of the wardrobe and into the room. Lucy picks up her unlit candle and glances at him over her shoulder. "Are you sure you're all right, Edmund? You look awful."

"I'm fine!" he snaps, and she takes him at his word, flashing him a bright smile and tearing out of the room. He blinks and runs after her, mouth dry.

Lucy hurtles into the boys' room and turns on the electric light, leaping onto Peter with a force that creaks the bed. "Peter, Peter, wake up! It's back, it's really back!"

Peter rolls over slowly, eyes squeezed shut, and Edmund finds himself wishing desperately that he won't wake up, not ever. "Lucy," Peter says hoarsely, "what are you talking about?"

"Narnia! It's all in the wardrobe, like I told you!" she answers ecstatically. Susan comes in behind Edmund, tying on her dressing gown, and they both go still, though for very different reasons. Edmund's mind races. He hasn't had time to think of anything to say.

"You've just been dreaming, Lucy," Susan whispers, reaching out to take her to bed. Edmund nods, unnoticed behind her. Let her take Lucy away, let this all be a dream…

"But I haven't! I saw Mr. Tumnus again, and this time Edmund went, too," Lucy explains earnestly. Edmund, who has kicked off his slippers and is getting back into bed, looks up in horror. He's in for it now.

They're all watching him at once. Susan's got her mouth set in a straight line, like she knows exactly where this is going and doesn't like it at all. Lucy's eyes are lit up and expectant, knowing that he can validate her and trusting him to do so. But Peter is watching him with eyes still half-filled with sleep, on the edge of waking, when credulity is fragile and things like other worlds are more easily believed. What he says now, Edmund realizes, is what Peter will accept as true. And so he does what he has done best over the past year: what he wants.

He stands tall, smirks before replying, "I was just playing along. I'm sorry, Peter, I shouldn't have encouraged her but you know what little children are like these days. They just don't know when to stop pretending. There's nothing there, really."

Lucy dissolves into the expected tears and runs from the room. Susan follows in an instant, as if she had just been waiting for Lucy to move. Peter shoots him a glare and hurries after. As he passes, he shoves Edmund backwards onto the bed. The fall doesn't hurt, but the vehemence behind the push is startling.

No one comes back for a long while. Edmund lies awake, thinking of beautiful Queens and Turkish Delight and how to make his siblings to trust him enough to get into Narnia, because he thinks he may have just ruined everything.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**My goodness, this was long. Please review, tell me what you think of the dialogue. I'm taking bits from the movie and the book, as well as adding my own or rearranging the order of things Does it sound OK?**


	18. Lion's Rebuke

**Pineapple101: Au contraire, a very clever Witch indeed. I'm glad you liked it. Enjoy the update!**

**Narniagirlfan: Interesting that you think the Witch is what caused Edmund to become normal. I think maybe you're right, in an indirect way. I still can't bring myself to like her, though. Thanks for the review!**

**Dogluver: Oh, yes, I want to hit the Witch all the time. Edmund, too, occasionally. Thanks for reading and reviewing! I'm happy you liked it.**

**Bookchomper101: I'm so glad you liked this scene! I know we've been building to it for a while. I will absolutely be showing Edmund in captivity. I don't know how much will happen now, how much will be flashbacks later, and how much might be one-shots after that, but it will definitely happen. The Witch was not nice to Edmund, and you will certainly get to see that.**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Seventeen: Lion's Rebuke**_

**The Professor's House, October 1****st****, 1940**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Peter scrambles after Susan and Lucy, vision spotty from vertigo. He's half-awake and following more the sound of his sister's sobs than her actual movements, only stopping because, for just a second, she does.

He rounds the corner, nearly colliding with Susan, and finds Lucy with her face buried in the Professor's vest. Susan looks as though she's stepped on the Queen's hem, so horrified is her expression. The Professor's arms are crooked out and around the figure trembling against his smoking jacket. He doesn't touch Lucy, and the thought of some stranger comforting his baby sister and taking care of her like he should be sets Peter's teeth on edge. He starts forward, only to retreat hastily as the Macready appears, a strange combination of snappish and softened. She jerkily ties her quilted robe about her waist, but leaves her hair streaming down her back. As she looks up at the Professor, her face sort of slumps, and she looks rather young.

"Professor," she tries vainly to recreate her forceful tone, and Peter stiffens. She will paint them black like this, confine them to their rooms like criminals. "I'm sorry, I told them you were not to be disturbed—"

"It's all right, Mrs. Macready, I'm sure there's an explanation," the Professor's voice is so even, so unemotional, that he's unreadable. Peter watches Susan twist her fingers together as Lucy, at the sound of the Professor's voice, looks up with wide, frightened eyes. She seems to just realize what she's done. Peter lifts a hand and drops it hastily in an aborted attempt to tug her away from the old man. He can feel the authority slipping away from him, mantling the adults in the hall with far more power than he has ever had over his family. It makes him feel small and angry to be dismissed without a thought. He feels backed into a corner and overthrown. It makes him want to fight.

He thinks back to Edmund, his poisonous little brother. He thinks of how Edmund has played with Lucy's mind, perhaps made whatever is afflicting her worse. He thinks of that stupid smile Edmund so often wears, how pleased he was to tear Lucy down. It is cruel and destructive. It is a threat. Edmund has more influence over Lucy, it seems, than Peter does. He knows it, too. That is beyond unacceptable. Peter is in charge. Peter is the adult. Peter, as their lives are now, is Dad. There will be no more of this bullying. He will make sure of that. It is the least he can do; return his father's children back to him unscathed.

Mrs. Macready begins to shuttle Lucy towards the kitchen for hot chocolate, and he gives up that fight for now in favor of one he can win. Peter tugs Susan behind him in the direction of their rooms. When the Professor clears his throat pointedly, it is Susan who stops first. Peter resents her betrayal. She should follow him, not some stranger they happen to live with. Where is her support? It is no wonder that Edmund doesn't listen if he can't even work together with Susan.

He glowers at the Professor's back as they trudge after him to his study. He holds the door open for them, and when he catches Peter's eye, the look the old man gives him is discerning. The Professor harrumphs and his eyebrows contract frightfully. Peter stares back in defiance, before glaring down at the floor. The old man will not win him over.

The Professor shuts the door resolutely. Peter and Susan stand before his desk. He makes them wait while he taps out tobacco for his pipe. As the silence lengthens, Peter shifts (in what he hopes is a subtle movement) slightly in front of Susan. The Professor's eyes flare in the match flame and Peter clenches his hands into fists. His motion has not gone unnoticed. Peter's heart thuds against his breastbone and he wonders at the panic pulsing through his veins.

When the Professor finally speaks, his voice is still and calm. "You seem to have upset the delicate internal balance of my housekeeper." Again, Peter cannot get a read on the old man, and again he is infuriated. They did not have a choice but to follow this benefactor who so generously took them in, but if he is going to scold their management skills, which Peter already knows need work, he does not need to hear it.

"We're very sorry, sir," he laces his apology with a bite of sarcasm that he hasn't used on his professors in years, but found helpful in dealing with his former chemistry teacher at the age of ten. "It won't happen again." He catches Susan's sleeve once more and tries to pull her from the room, but she won't budge. Her shoulders are curved in around her, as though she is shielding herself from Peter's force.

"It's our sister, sir. Lucy," she begins helplessly, and Peter stops as though he's hit a wall because he can't believe what he's hearing. She's giving in.

"The weeping girl." There's a hint of chill now, a cold analysis as the Professor categorizes each Pevensie by what he's just seen. Peter does not want to know what the old man thinks of him, does not want to stay to find out, but Susan forges ahead, ignoring his heated glare at her back.

"Yes, sir. She's…upset." That's something, then. Susan can't bring herself to come right out with it, say the word that could ruin them all. If the Professor figures it out, he could have Lucy sent away.

"Hence the weeping." The Professor is mocking them, goading them. _Tell me what you are really here for._

An image of Lucy floats to mind: hair cut boyishly short, clad in ill-fitting white pajamas, rocking back and forth on a sterile bed in an empty room. Something roars in his chest and he lunges forward, almost gasping. "It's—it's nothing," he assures the Professor, turning to Susan to convince her, too. "We can handle it."

"Oh," the Professor doesn't look up from his pipe, smiles knowingly, "I can see that."

Peter catches Susan's eyes, begs her. Leave it. Let him think she's normal. We can make her normal. Leave it. Please.

She flashes him an apology that does nothing to settle his nerves and clarifies to the Professor that "upset" is perhaps a loose term for what is happening to their little sister. "She thinks she's found a magical land in the upstairs wardrobe." Susan's exasperated and blindly progressing. She doesn't see the consequences of what she says, but Peter does. The Professor looks up suddenly, eyes wide and serious, and Peter despairs. The Professor knows.

He shepherds them to the couch and Peter hopelessly expands, knowing it's too late now, might as well go whole hog. "The wardrobe upstairs. Lucy thinks she's found a whole forest inside."

"She won't stop going on about it!" Susan complains, and Peter winces. A single delusion could be explained away by the trauma of the war, but recurring ones could not. He wanted to run from the room, snatch up his sister and tear off into the night. Take her far away from the stupid wardrobe and his ruthless brother and meddling sister; just tell her it would be all right.

"What was it like?" the Professor breathes, and Peter is revolted by is fascination. Can't he have some decency?

"Like talking to a lunatic," Susan wails, and Peter closes his eyes, swaying in his seat. The connection's right there. It's over.

"No, no, no," the Professor says impatiently, "not her. The forest!"

Peter gapes. "You're not saying you believe her?" And then he snaps his jaw shut. If the Professor believes it…if he's like Lucy…then maybe they can escape this after all.

"W—you don't?" The Professor is genuinely confused. Susan scoffs, kicks Peter when he insistently steps on her foot.

"Well, of course not! Edmund said they were only pretending."

"That is a point which certainly deserves consideration. Does your experience lead you to regard your brother or your sister as the more reliable? I mean, which is the more truthful?" The mockery is gone from his eyes now. He is very serious indeed. Peter senses the old man has a point somewhere. He hopes that by going along with him, they can scrape by.

"That's just the thing, sir," he answers honestly, "Up until now, I'd have said Lucy every time." The Professor nods with something like approval, and for the first time tonight Peter doesn't feel like he's been found wanting.

The Professor leans back in his chair, puffing on his pipe. "A charge of lying against someone whom you have always found truthful is a very serious thing."

And then Susan mucks it up. "We were afraid it mightn't even be lying. We thought…it might be…" she stumbles over her words, and Peter wants to throw up his hands. Now she realizes the trap she's gotten them into? Now? "We thought there might be something wrong with Lucy," she finishes lamely, ducking her head.

"Madness, you mean?" The Professor looks down his nose at her and Peter half-rises in fury. A sharp glare sends him back to his seat unsure of how he got there. "One has only to look at her and talk to her to see that she is not mad." He has the audacity to appear offended that they would even consider such a concept.

"But," Susan sputters weakly, "logically—"

"If she's not mad, and she's not lying," the Professor interupts loudly, "then _logically_, we must assume she's telling the truth."

Susan falls silent, staring at him. Peter can't breathe. This old man truly believes Lucy, honestly thinks there's a forest in the upstairs wardrobe. It's not possible. It's too good to be true.

"You're saying," he rolls the words along his tongue carefully, "that we should just believe her?"

"But there was no time!" Susan bursts in desperately. Peter can read her face. She's coming up with every obstacle she can think of, not to prove Lucy right, but to make sure this is really what the Professor believes. "Lucy came running after us the very moment we were out of the room. It was less than a minute, and she pretended to have been away for hours."

"That is the very thing that makes her story so likely to be true!" exclaims the Professor. "If there really is a door to another world in this house—and it is a very strange house that even I know little about—I should not be at all surprised to find that the other world had a separate time of its own that would never take up any of our time.

"I don't think many girls her age would invent an idea like that so quickly. She would have hidden for hours, had she been pretending."

"But, do you really mean, sir, that there could be other worlds all over the place? Anywhere?" In spite of himself, Peter is intrigued by this idea. He likes the thought of walking along a familiar street, turning a corner, and ending up somewhere entirely new.

The Professor wiggles his eyebrows knowingly, and Peter wonders abruptly what, exactly, are the old man's reasons for believing Lucy's story so quickly. What does he know? "Nothing is more probable," he finally replies, before frowning and pulling out a kerchief to polish his spectacles.

Susan looks appalled. "But, what are we to do?" she pleads, and all of Peter's anger comes rushing back. Can't she just trust him to get it right this once?

The Professor slides his spectacles back onto his nose and peers at her through the lenses. "There's one thing you might try," he says conversationally, and Susan leans forward, eager. "We might all just try minding our own business!"

Peter pulls her from the study shortly after that. They don't speak. Peter doesn't trust himself not to shout, and he thinks Susan might be in shock. She breaks away at her and Lucy's room, but he follows her inside.

Lucy is sound asleep in her bed, swathed in blankets and utterly peaceful, though her cheeks are red and raw where her tears have dried on her skin. Susan smooths her hair and glances up at Peter. He sighs, coming to her side and bending gently over Lucy to press a kiss to her cheek. Lucy rolls over, burrowing deeper into the quilting, and Peter retreats delicately. He exits the girls' room and enters his own, closing the door behind him.

Edmund is wide awake, lying on his back and staring fixedly at the electric light hanging from the ceiling. His brother looks so serene and pleased. It's enraging. This whole night has been miserable, but Peter knows all he can do is try to control Edmund. If he gets Edmund to leave Lucy alone, Lucy will calm down. They need never speak of this magic country again. And that, Peter knows, will solve all of his problems.

"Look here," he snarls, and Edmund sits up, surprised, "you've been perfectly beastly to Lu ever since she started this nonsense about the wardrobe—even before all of that! You go playing games with her about it and setting her off. I believe you did it simply out of spite—"

"But, it's all nonsense," Edmund protests. He crosses his arms over his chest, and Peter finally gives in to the urge and throws up his hands.

"Of course it's all nonsense, that's the point. Lu was fine when we left home, but since we've been down here she seems to be either going queer in the head or turning into an astoundingly imaginative liar. Whatever the case, what good d'you think you do by jeering and nagging her one day, and encouraging her the next?" He's probably never been so angry in his life.

"I thought—I thought—" Edmund is very pale. Serves him right, Peter thinks savagely. He hopes Edmund gets ill. He hopes Edmund faints. He hopes Edmund goes away and never returns.

"You didn't think anything at all. You never do. Haven't all year. I see you hanging around with that O'Toole boy. He's an awful person. He makes it worse, you know. You ought not to—"

"Stop it!" Edmund screams, "You don't know anything!"

Once that sort of wrath would have given Peter pause. Now he lives for it. "Don't you dare tell me what to do! You have no right—"

"Stop it!" Susan flings open their door, eyes bright with righteous ferocity. Both boys fall silent, but she only looks to Peter. "It won't make things any better having a row between you two. Go to bed. We won't talk of this tomorrow. For Lucy."

Peter doesn't protest. Doesn't even try. A wave of exhaustion crashes over him so heavily that he nearly falls before reaching his bed. Susan slams the door shut behind her, and both he and Edmund flinch. She's right, though, Su. Peter flicks off the electricity and settles further into bed. Having a fight in front of Lucy will just upset her more. If he's going to discipline Edmund, it must be done on the sly, quiet-like. He'll start small, Peter decides, but work up if Edmund doesn't catch on. It's time to fight dirty, like his brother does. And, Peter grins in the dark, he knows exactly how to start.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Paragon Peter, succumbing to the dark side. What did you think? There was a lot of dialogue, but not a lot of action. Did that still work? Please review!**


	19. Fox's Choice

**pineapple101: Peter can be thick-headed, but that's because he acts with his heart, not his mind. Yet again, I'd say that's part of his charm. Glad you liked it!**

**Narniagirlfan: I don't approve of Peter's "dark side" either, but he has his reasons. After all, Edmund's being a trifle difficult to deal with…thanks for reading, and enjoy your update!**

**Dogluver: Yep, Peter is misreading the situation and his most effective reaction to it. But what else is new? Glad you liked the update!**

**Bookchomper101: Haha, the dark side quote makes perfect sense in Edmund's case. Nice connection! I'm excited to see where the brothers' battle takes them as well. Glad you're having fun!**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Eighteen: Fox's Choice**_

**The Professor's House, October 7****th****, 1940**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Edmund sits at the table poking idly at the eggs on his plate. They are cold and hardening beneath his fork and though he knows he will not be allowed to leave the dining room until they are finished, he cannot bring himself to eat even a bite.

It's been six days since he met the Queen and tasted her perfect version of Turkish Delight. Since then, every flavor has vanished. All of his food is like sawdust, chalky and dry on his tongue. Consequently, he hasn't eaten much of anything. At night, he dreams of slipping into the world—Narnia, Lucy's called it—and traveling to her castle. Maybe, if he tells her that he's very close to bringing the rest of his siblings, she'll let him have one piece…

At his side, Susan laughs at something Peter has said, and Edmund stabs the eggs angrily. They quiver sluggishly and he fights the urge to vomit.

The truth is that he is not at all near getting Peter and Susan through the wardrobe. Peter has taken to guarding Lucy closely, hovering over her like she's about to break. When she so much as looks in the direction of the spare room, Peter jumps into action, distracts her in any way possible. Susan acts similarly, watching Lucy with a curious expression. He has caught her muttering, "Logically…_logically…_" but doesn't care to ask.

If Edmund could only slip off on his own he might get to the wardrobe, but Peter— horrid Peter—has seen to that. He is with Edmund nearly every waking moment: stalks after him down corridors, waits for him outside bathrooms, watches him when he's outdoors. Peter acts like he doesn't know he's doing it, but that obnoxious little tune he hums—he never could whistle—and the tiny smirk creasing his lips gives him away.

What's bad isn't that Edmund's annoyed by Peter's behavior—though he is. What's worse is that he's intimidated by him in a way he's never felt around Peter before. Peter's not just following him. He's doing…things. Tricks, traps, pranks that Edmund's all too familiar with because he's done them himself. They're juvenile, low-grade, beginner status. Peter has flicked peas at him during supper. He's put pebbles in his shoes. He's stayed up late and refused to turn off the lights, reading aloud long after Edmund falls into an uneasy sleep. Edmund hasn't acknowledged that Peter is being the bully, and Peter hasn't taken credit for his actions. He protects Lucy fiercely, leads all of his siblings in expeditions inside and outside the house, and does not speak to Edmund at all.

Edmund can handle all of this. It will take far more than the occasional vegetable in his hair to affect him; after all, he's had his head shoved down toilets. He keeps his head down, comes up with excellent ways to tease Lucy but never finds the opportunity to carry out his plans, and does not rise to Peter's bait. If anything, the fact that he can resist such indignities makes Edmund feel bolder. He swaggers about the house, sasses the Macready, and ignores Susan's pointed stares.

That night, Edmund stands in front of the sink, staring resolutely at the porcelain as he brushes his teeth. Peter is beside him doing the same. He is humming that jaunty tune again, something bright and overtly patriotic. Edmund spits into the sink, imagines his ears blocked up with cotton so that he can't hear the song. He brings his drinking cup to his lips.

A forceful shove sends his elbow upwards and cold water spilling all down his front. Edmund looks up in shock at Peter, who glances over and shrugs. Edmund closes his eyes, feels the water seep through his shirt and cool on his skin. It reminds him of the Queen's touch, and he lifts his head. He will be a Prince. He is better than this.

Setting his cup down, he exits the bathroom. The soft thuds of Peter's feet follow, then catch up. The corridor is narrow, and Edmund walks down the middle daringly.

He doesn't expect Peter to take the dare.

He staggers sideways and slams his shoulder and head into the wall in quick succession as Peter shunts him out of his way. Edmund drops to the floor, stunned, body aching. He opens his mouth to shout at Peter, but the words stick heavy and dull to his tongue.

Peter passes him, reaches their room, shuts their door, and locks it.

He does not look back.

Before he's even realized he's moving (why does this always happen?), Edmund is on his feet, stumbles, rights himself, and rushes the door. He throws his whole weight against it, fighting a scream. He can't see straight, there's too much darkness; he can't breathe properly, the air's too thick. He hurls himself at the door again and again, knowing he will bruise, that the marks will stain him purple and green. He doesn't care.

Backing up to the opposite wall, Edmund runs at the door with full intent, but it swings ajar and he carries on inside, crashing into Peter and taking them both backwards until they hit the wall at the end of the room. Edmund braces his legs against Peter's, grabs fistfuls of his nightshirt, and shakes him. Peter gapes, blue eyes clear for the first time all week. Edmund's hair ruffles with the force of Peter's gasps and he shakes him again, frantic.

"Stop it," he snarls low, "just stop it! This—this isn't you, Peter, this isn't right."

Peter grips Edmund's fingers, attempts to pry himself free. Edmund digs in tighter, nails scrabbling on the bared, flushed skin where Peter's shirt has pulled down. "Get off me!" Peter growls, and Edmund laughs.

"Not until you promise you'll stop doing this," he answers, feeling his blood pulsing wildly against his ears. He's scared, he realizes dimly. He hasn't been truly, recognizably scared in ages.

Peter's eyes harden, his mouth twists. "No." He squirms, kicks Edmund's shin, bares his teeth when Edmund holds on more firmly, "No, because this is the only way to get through to you!"

"It's not you!" Edmund can feel he's on the verge of screaming once more. His eyes burn. "It's not you, it's—"

"It's what?" Peter's hold on his fingers has made his hands numb. Edmund tries to think.

"It's mean," he breathes, and Peter snickers. He tries to smile and fails, his face contorting grotesquely. Edmund releases him, steps back, panting. His rough breaths match Peter's.

"Yes," Peter agrees in a harsh whisper, "but that's your language, isn't it?"

Edmund reels, then lunges forward, hitting any part of Peter he can reach. The fear wells into panic, writhes up his throat, and he is truly screaming now, shrieking unintelligibly. Even he doesn't know what he's saying. Peter has crouched low, shielding his face but not fighting back. It makes Edmund hit him harder, listening for the soft upticks in his breath that signify wounding and pain.

"You—don't—anything—not—stop it—Peter—monster—"

"What are you doing?!" Desperate hands tear him away from Peter and he struggles viciously, striking out at his captor. There's a soft cry of pain and he's released, skitters away and backs into his bed, caged.

It's Susan, he registers, light fingers pressed to her cheek where he's landed a punch. She's staring at him like he's a stranger, then at Peter much the same. For once they are equal in her eyes. "Again? What…?"

Peter shakes his head, braces his hands on the wall and slowly stands. "It's nothing, Su. Go back to bed."

She frowns, hands moving to her hips, shoulders swelling for a tirade.

"No, Su." Peter rolls into his bed, drags up the covers. "Go." His voice is hoarse, ragged. As if he had been screaming instead of Edmund.

She leaves reluctantly, slams their door. Peter does not wait until Edmund is in bed before he switches off the light. As Edmund lies down, he feels something heavy settle between their beds. It is dark and familiar. When Edmund looks towards it, identifies its shape, it laughs. He watches Peter shift, and glares at it, knowing Peter is caught in its claws.

No, he thinks, this is not what I wanted (not that he truly knows what he wants). What have you done?

_What have you done?_ It asks back, and Edmund ducks his head.

Go away!

_Can't._ It sidles up to him, breathes on his neck. It feels like a snowy breeze and smells rank, like a sweating animal. Edmund shudders.

What are you?

There's no reply. He can feel it pressing into his breast, into the space he carved out for it long ago. He takes it in and inhales deeply, sucking it all up. It calms, weighs familiarly. It doesn't have to classify itself. He knows it, has long accepted it inside. What he hadn't anticipated was how greedy it would be, how it would spread.

He hadn't thought it would try to take Peter.

Edmund slumps against his pillows, swallowing sobs. This can't go on. He doesn't have anyone to turn to. The one person who will understand is a world away. He closes his eyes and makes a decision.

He will go tomorrow, back to Narnia and the Queen, if he has to leave the others behind to do it.

Rolling onto his side, Edmund wraps his arms about his ribs and goes to sleep.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**I know you're going to have questions about the last part. It's very weird. But I want to make it clear that Edmund isn't possessed. That doesn't happen in England. Draw your own, more logical conclusions and review to let me know what they are. I can't wait to find out!**


	20. Lion's Start

**Hello, all! Sorry for the delay. This chapter just kept getting longer and longer but I was unsure how to break it up. Luckily, WillowDryad figured it out, so what you're getting is a really long Peter chapter, a short Edmund chapter, and then when I have time again, another long Peter chapter. The short Edmund chapter will be up within a few days. Thank you so much for your patience!**

**Dogluver: You're very close in thinking that in the final scene, Edmund is thinking of his conscience. I view the darkness as a sort of manifestation of his guilt and all the horrible things he's done.**

**Narniagirlfan: See above comment about the final scene last chapter. I'm so glad you liked it and enjoy your next installment!**

**Roseaj: Thanks so much for following! Feel free to message me with comments, questions, likes, dislikes, or suggestions about the plot. I'm open to anything.**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Nineteen: Lion's Start**_

**The Professor's House, October 8****th****, 1940**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Peter rolls the ball in his hands, squinting into the sunshine. He shakes out his shoulders, winces at the aches that resonate from Edmund's blows the night before. The vehemence behind Edmund's attack had been shocking. Edmund's garbled words and panic-stricken eyes had left him with a hollow feeling in his chest. With Susan in the room, it had become much easier to think, to register what he had done and wonder how he had let himself get to that point. The hollowness had intensified by morning into sharp pains that couldn't be attributed to hunger. Peter had shaken off Susan's fussing, insisting he was fine. He wasn't sick, not really. Just ashamed.

He had been hard on Edmund last night, maybe even cruel. It was not the way to handle his brother, and certainly not the way their father would ever handle him. Peter squeezes the ball tightly, wishing he could write Dad and find out how to help Edmund. But Dad…

Shaking his head, Peter winds up, only faltering when he notices Edmund staring off into the distance, completely inattentive. Yesterday, it would have been too good an opportunity to squander, but Peter is mindful of his behavior and Susan's firm, umpire stare.

"And the crowd goes quiet as Pevensie steps up to the crease," he begins loudly. Edmund doesn't turn his head. Peter's stomach clenches as he thinks of all the words that could be replaying in his brother's mind, none of them kind. Swallowing hard, he continues, "Peter winds up, poised to take yet another wicket—!" His fingers slip as he releases and throws the ball hard. Edmund is like stone, the pose only broken when the ball collides with his leg.

"Ow!" Susan's giggles, begun during Peter's monologue, end abruptly. She drops her hands and straightens, eyebrows drawing together.

Peter tries to play it off, laughing. "Wake up, Dolly Daydream!" He hopes keeping his tone light will engender a smile, but an uncomfortable silence settles instead. Susan is unhelpful, throwing him the ball without a word.

"Why can't we play hide and seek again?" Edmund asks with an air of one trying to be casual and failing. Lucy looks up accusingly from where she's reading, and Peter diverts quickly.

"I thought you said it was a kids' game," he comments, juggling the ball with ease.

"Besides," Susan adds with a sort of forced brightness, "we could all use the fresh air."

For once, Edmund foregoes telling her off for trying to be Mum and instead presses his case. "Not like there isn't air inside." Peter, examining the ball for any nicks, nearly misses her face fall. Edmund may not have rebuffed her as publicly, but the rudeness still stung. He sighs.

"Are you ready?" he asks, glances at his brother, and gets caught by the analytical stare he receives. There is the briefest of pauses before Edmund blinks, easing, and Peter exhales heavily.

"Are _you_?" Edmund challenges, pounds the bat into the grass. Peter grins, winds up, and lets the ball fly. It bounces into Edmund's range and he swings aggressively. Peter knows he will connect, knows he cannot catch this, but does not expect the ball to go hurtling through the expensive and fragile painted glass crest on one of the house's windows. Edmund gasps, unexpectedly shocked, and Lucy's eyes go wide with surprise. Peter does not wait but runs (why must he always run?) towards the house, praying to get there before the Macready, and hoping against hope that with a bit of glue, Susan can patch the window back up.

It quickly becomes evident, staring at the scattered suit of armor and the miniscule glass shards in the Persian rug that none of this mess is fixable. An awful hopelessness settles inside Peter: what will the Macready do? Will she tell the Professor? Will they be sent back to Finchley?

What will their Mum say?

"Well done, Ed," he bites out, the nickname rough and toxic on his tongue. Even when he's not trying to, his little brother gets them into such trouble.

"You bowled it!" Edmund protests and Peter snorts because that's great, just great, of course Edmund won't take any sort of responsibility.

From downstairs, the soft conversation that has hardly registered grows quieter, then trails off. "What on earth is going on up there?" Peter hears the housekeeper call suspiciously. "Please, come this way," she says lowly, and Peter groans. She has a tour on today, and here they are in the sitting room, the grand guest area of the Professor's house, with a destroyed window and piecemeal suit of armor.

Susan breathes the housekeeper's name and Peter knows they have to move. He does not anticipate the long chase through the entirety of the house, up and down stairs he didn't even know existed with the Macready following at a brisk clip, lecturing the tour the whole way. She's like a hound with a scent and they are the prey.

In the end, it is Edmund who finds the open door, Edmund who darts into the spare room and towards the wardrobe without a second thought, as though it's an unremarkable object, even after all the piece has put them through. Peter pulls up, mindful of Lucy at his side. Edmund, unheeding, wrenches open the door and gestures frantically. There's a glint of something in his eyes that Peter thinks is like fear, but not quite. "Come on!"

Susan glares. "You've got to be joking," she starts, but the Macready's footsteps in the hall send her across the room after Edmund. They have no other option and Peter hopes Lucy won't have some sort of breakdown when all of this is over. She's being very quiet.

Peter steps inside last, pulls the door nearly closed—but not entirely, because sensible people never shut themselves in a wardrobe—and waits. The door handle turns and he hisses "Get back!" before turning to push Susan further inside.

"I wish the Macready would hurry up and take all these people away, I'm getting horribly cramped!" Susan whispers, stumbling into Lucy and pressing against Edmund.

Edmund moves aside, face strange in the darkness. "And what a filthy smell of camphor!" His voice is oddly tight as he pushes towards the back of the wardrobe, hands outstretched, moving the rustling coats. Peter follows after. It really is a deceptively large wardrobe.

"How is it cold?" Susan wonders. Peter watches as she draws back her hand from a mink and rubs her fingers together. "And…wet?"

Lucy says nothing.

Edmund is nearly sprinting, and Peter, still backing up, turns around to look back at the door. With a cry, he trips backwards and falls, taking Susan with him. Powder, damp and chilled, falls into his lap and he goes very still.

There is snow. In his lap. In the wardrobe.

He turns, and for a moment all that exists for him is the world he's seeing. There are trees—pines—covered in snow. There is snow on the ground and a nip to the air. The sky is gray and bright.

There's no question in his mind that the Professor was right—that Lucy was right.

Narnia is real.

"Impossible," Susan chokes. If she could, Peter thinks she might run back the way they came, but that way lies the Macready, and Peter knows that this escape is too wonderful to lose simply because it's 'impossible'.

"Don't worry; I'm sure it's just your imagination." Lucy beams at them both, no malice, only joy. She's happy to be back, to be right, to have brought them all here.

Something in Peter's chest loosens as he realizes that either they're all mad, or Lucy's quite sane. And logically…

"I don't suppose saying we're sorry would quite cover it?" he asks weakly, dismayed when Lucy's mouth hardens into a little line.

"No," she says shortly, "it wouldn't."

Peter considers dropping to his knees. There is something in her bearing, in the jut of her chin and flash of her eyes that makes her almost regal. Her surety is astounding.

He takes a snowball to the face and the feeling is gone. He loses himself in the whirl of snowy powder and thwack of collision, laughing more freely than he has in months as he scoops up snow to return the volley. Beside him, Susan forgets about the mess they're making of their clothes and joins in.

"Ow! Stop it!" Peter pulls up to see Edmund clutching his arm and Susan guiltily dropping a snowball to the ground. Things start to fall into place.

"Of all the poisonous little beasts—" he starts in amazement and Edmund's face screws up in anger.

"You didn't believe her, either." This protestation is even weaker than the first, made at the pile of armor back in the Professor's house. It seems so very far away.

"Apologize to Lucy." Peter isn't sure why he's pressing the issue, only that it seems right. If Edmund apologizes, they can start off strong. Perhaps things will be better here.

Edmund remains silent and Peter wants to rage. The fire that wells up inside him is volcanic, stronger than anything he's felt in England. He starts toward Edmund unthinkingly. "Say you're sorry!"

"All right!" Edmund refuses to step aside, but he caves under Peter's threat. "I'm sorry," he grumbles towards Lucy, and something in the poison of his words seems to affect her. She draws herself up again, but she's sneering, and it looks wrong on her. Peter wants to throw up.

"That's all right," she echoes tightly, "some little children don't know when to stop pretending." Privately, Peter applauds her pluck, but it leaves uncertainty pooling under his ribs.

"Maybe we should go back," Susan suggests. They have been in the wardrobe for a while.

"Shouldn't we at least take a look around?" Edmund counters. The light flashes in his eyes again, that same almost-panic. Peter ignores it.

"I think we should let Lucy decide."

They look to her and she positively glows. "I'd like you all to meet Mr. Tumnus!" Edmund rolls his eyes, skin pale.

"Well, then Mr. Tumnus it is!" Peter declares, and if he's being truthful, the idea of shaking hands with a Faun sounds fantastic.

Susan stamps her feet, shivering. "What about putting on coats?"

Peter hesitates. "Isn't that stealing?"

"I'm sure nobody would mind," she says reasonably, smiling, "we're not even taking them out of the wardrobe." She's recovered and expanded her logic, well, magically. Peter grins.

"I never thought of it that way. Wait here." He presses back through the trees and into the darkness. Breathing in the camphor and stale air, he feels caught between two worlds. A sudden fear seizes him: what if the wardrobe closes up and the others are stuck in Narnia without him? Grabbing the first three coats he sees, plus a special one for Edmund, he bursts back into the snow, breathing deep lungfuls of the clear air.

When the coats are doled out, they are all a bit long and rather more like robes than jackets, but they are warm. Edmund pauses at the sight of his. "That's a girl's coat!" He shies away from it like it might eat him.

Peter keeps his face carefully blank. "I know."

They start off, following Lucy. Peter runs his fingers over the lamppost when they come to it, rapping his knuckles against the metal. Not even Susan ventures a guess as to how it appeared in the woods. Somehow, Peter doesn't think the forest took over a town and the lamppost is all the remains. Peter thinks there may never have been a town or people here at all.

At one point, Susan trips down a hill and lands flat on her back. Peter rushes to help her up, then pulls away as she begins to make a snow angel. She looks so happy, pink-cheeked and laughing. The tired crease between her brows vanishes into the snow. The weight of motherhood has fallen from her shoulders, and Peter can't help but be glad.

Peter is watching Lucy babble on about what they'll do when they reach Mr. Tumnus's, a fond smile on his face, when suddenly she stops talking. He follows her gaze and blinks hard, disbelieving.

Mr. Tumnus's door has been wrenched off its hinges. The inside of the house looks cold and dark. Mr. Tumnus no longer appears to be living here. When Lucy rushes for the house, Peter nearly falls trying to keep up with her. What if whoever did this is still here? What if Lucy gets hurt?

The house is empty and abandoned, the inside savagely overturned. It reminds him of the footage he's seen on news reels of Nazis searching a home for Jews, and it makes him sick.

"This is a pretty good washout. Not much good coming here." Edmund's comment is half-hearted, so Peter chooses to disregard him.

"Who would do something like this?" Lucy nearly sobs.

A crunching sound causes Peter to whirl, only to see Edmund hastily stepping off a portrait. The glass is cracked, but not by him. Long lines scour the surface, almost like claws. Swallowing hard, Peter rips a piece of paper off the wall and leads them outside to read it.

**The former occupant of these premises, Faun Tumnus, is under arrest and awaiting trial on a charge of High Treason against her Imperial Majesty Jadis, Queen of Narnia, Chatelaine of Cair Paravel, Empress of the Lone Islands, etc., also of comforting her said Majesty's enemies, harboring spies and fraternizing with Humans.**

**Signed, MAUGRIM, Captain of the Secret Police**

**LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!**

"Now we really should go back," Susan says urgently, but Peter senses Lucy's agony and turns to her.

"Who's this Queen, Lu?" he asks carefully, "D'you know anything about her?"

"She's a horrible witch. The White Witch," Lucy replies, upset.

"It doesn't seem particularly safe here, and it's getting colder by the minute. How about going home?" Susan pleads.

"Oh, but, we can't! We can't! Don't you see? I'm the Human. He hid me from the Witch and showed me the way back. Someone must have found out and told her." Lucy is trying very hard not to cry, but Peter knows if she says anymore it'll be all over for him. Edmund shifts uneasily behind them, and Peter knows he's just as uncomfortable with tears.

"Maybe we should call the police," Peter tries, but Susan will have none of it.

"These are the police!" She gestures to the missive, and Peter knows it's true. But Mr. Tumnus saved Lucy and is suffering for it. Peter knows this, and Susan knows it, too.

"Don't worry, Lu," he bends down so they are eye to eye. "We'll think of something." Susan nods, giving up going home for the moment, perhaps hoping that once finding Mr. Tumnus proves futile, they can hurry back the way they came.

"Why?" Edmund asks suddenly, honestly curious. "I mean, he's a criminal."

Whatever Peter considers saying is cut off by a sharp, "Psst!" He jerks his head towards the trees and catches sight of a Robin fluttering pointedly. Lucy hurries forward.

"Please, can you tell us where Mr. Tumnus, the Faun, has been taken?"

The Robin doesn't reply, though Peter thinks Lucy might have expected it to, but flutters to the next tree and waits. Lucy takes a step towards it, and the Robin flies on and alights, waiting once more. Lucy turns back to Peter, bouncing. "Of course it can't talk to us here! The Trees will tell the Witch. Come on, let's follow him."

Peter gapes. The Trees…talk. Oh, dear.

Surprisingly, not even Susan objects to following the Robin. After about half an hour, Edmund jogs up to Peter's side. Peter doesn't initiate a conversation, but after a moment Edmund clears his throat.

"What?" Peter snaps, trying not to trip while still watching the Bird.

"There's no good frightening the girls," Edmund begins, "but have you realized what we're doing? We're following a guide we know nothing about. Why shouldn't it be leading us into a trap?"

Peter does trip this time and almost falls. "I hadn't thought of that," he says, hushed, grateful for Edmund's quick mind. "Still, a robin…they're good birds in all the stories. I'm sure a robin wouldn't be on the wrong side."

"Which is the right side, though?" Edmund hisses, "How do we know the Fauns are in the right and the Queen (yes, we've been told she's a Witch) is in the wrong? We don't really know anything about either. I think—"

"The Faun saved Lucy," Peter points out, leaping over a log. Edmund follows suit, coat flying out behind him.

"He said he did, yes," Edmund agrees, "But how do we know he really did? And another thing: do you know how to get home from here?"

Peter glances behind him for the first time in since leaving Mr. Tumnus's house. Their prints lead off into the woods, but more snowfall looks to be on the way and the trail could disappear at any moment. "Great Scott," he manages, "I hadn't thought of that."

"I know," Edmund snarks, but Peter can't find it in himself to be angry. They could very well be saved because of Edmund's alert. At least now, if they walk into a trap, they'll be more prepared.

With that in mind, Peter hurries up the line to reach Lucy, just as she and Susan gasp in dismay. "The Robin!" Lucy cries, "It's flown away."

Edmund huffs out a nervous breath as a twig snaps behind him. He scuttles up next to Peter, who doesn't comment. A rustling behind a bush has him shunting the girls behind him, frantically searching for a weapon. There is nothing in the open clearing where they have been led, like animals to slaughter. Peter clutches Susan's hand, begs Mum for forgiveness for not protecting his siblings well enough, and braces himself.

He gawks at the beaver that appears from behind a rock. The animal looks back over its shoulder before inching forward. Peter drops Susan's hand, confused.

Lucy, echoing his thoughts, manages, "It—it's a beaver."

Scenting the air, the beaver scuttles towards them. Its eyes are bright and curious. If there's caution there, Peter doesn't think it's directed at them. The beaver stops a few metres from them and waits.

"It wants us to go to it," Susan breathes.

"I know," Peter murmurs, careful not to startle it, "but the question is, are we to go to it or not?"

Because she is clearly the most knowledgeable about Narnia (Edmund doesn't count, who knows what he'll lie about next?), he turns to his baby sister. "What do you think, Lu?"

She scrutinizes the beaver solemnly. "I think it's a nice beaver."

"Yes, but how do we _know_?" Edmund repeats his earlier question, and Peter nods decisively.

"If it's trustworthy, it'll know we won't hurt it and we can bring it to us. Anyway, we ought to be a match for a beaver, all four of us." He includes Edmund in the count and hopes his brother won't run away if it comes to a fight. He's not sure how much help the girls will be. Bending down, he extents his hand and makes a clicking noise, as one calls a stray cat. "Here, boy." He clicks again as the beaver edges closer, pulling up on its hind legs to examine his palm. Peter waits, holding his breath.

"Well I ain't gonna smell it if that's wot you want."

Yanking his hand away, Peter blinks hard. No. Please no. Beavers don't talk, beavers don't talk…

Unless they're Beavers. In Narnia. Right.

Lucy's laughing at him, unsurprised even if the reveal was unexpected, and he feels rather like a fool. "Er…sorry," he tries, knowing that he will never live down having apologized to a Beaver, but perhaps in Narnia what will matter more is that he treated it like a dumb beast. He wonders if there are penalties for that.

The Beaver nods slightly, acknowledging his error and moving on. His eyes are fixed on the giggler at Peter's side, and Peter tenses. Lucy's the smallest, the most likely to be attacked. If that Beaver tries anything—

"Lucy Pevensie?"

Lucy sobers at once. The Beaver has asked so seriously, and Peter can see in the way the two look at each other that they know what will be said before it is spoken aloud, that words are just for the benefit of the others. "Yes?"

She steps forward, and Edmund calls sharply from behind her, "How do we know you're a friend?" Lucy stops short and looks questioningly back at Peter. He clears his throat.

"Not meaning to be rude, Mr. Beaver, but you see, we're strangers."

"Quite right, quite right," the Beaver whispers, glancing around. His accent is strong and uncultured, but his tone is warm. "'Ere is my token." Uncurling his paw, he dangles a dirtied handkerchief between his fingers.

Lucy bounds forward with a gasp of recognition. "Oh, of course! It's the hankie I gave to poor Mr. Tum—"

"—Tumnus, right." Mr. Beaver nods. "Poor fellow. He found out about the arrest and got it to me just before they took 'im. He said that if anything happened to 'im I must meet you and take you on."

"Is he all right?" Lucy trembles in anticipation. Mr. Beaver looks around again.

"Further in." He bounds suddenly off into the trees, and Lucy and Peter follow at once.

"What are you doing?" Susan hisses, catching Peter's sleeve. He faces her, trying to hide his indecision.

"He says he knows the Faun," he explains with a shrug.

Susan shoots him a look of exquisite exasperation. "He's a beaver. He shouldn't be saying anything!"

"Everythin' all right?" Mr. Beaver appears on a swell of snow, looking disgruntled.

Peter turns sharply. "Yes…we were just talking." The excuse is weak, but Mr. Beaver doesn't call him out on it. He looks upward, frowning. Peter groans. Beavers shouldn't frown!

"That's better left for safe quarters," Mr. Beaver advises, before disappearing over the hill again. Lucy gazes at the spot Mr. Beaver has just vacated, then starts stubbornly after him. Sharing a helpless look with Susan, Peter does the same.

They travel with Mr. Beaver in silence, longer than they followed the Robin. When Lucy begins to lag, struggling to step over the snow drifts, their guide urges her on. "Come on. We don't want to be caught out 'ere after nightfall!" Peter mutely holds out his arms, offering to carry her, but she shakes her head and strides forward more firmly. He smiles, secretly relieved.

As dusk begins to blue the snow around them and the tiniest of snowflakes start falling, Mr. Beaver pauses at the top of a small valley. "Oh, blimey! Looks like the old girl's got the kettle on!" He rubs his paws together before bounding down the slope. "Nice cuppa Rosy Lee—!"

Peter and the others take a moment more to admire the view. In the heart of the valley is a small lake of ice, with a wide stream feeding in one side and out the other. The water is frozen over, with a dam clutched in the ice. Looking down at the thatched cottage resting in the solid lake, Peter surmises Mr. Beaver built all of this, and that they have reached his home. Light streams from the cottage windows invitingly, and he grins.

"What a lovely dam!" Susan recovers first, scrambling after Mr. Beaver and attempting to reclaim her manners as her dignity flies away in the kicked up snow.

"Merely a trifle and it isn't really finished!" Mr. Beaver demurs, but Peter knows Susan has buttered up their host superbly. He and Lucy trot down into the valley. Lucy skitters onto the ice, holding hands with a careful Susan, and Peter pulls up to wait for Edmund.

"Coming, Dolly Daydream?"

Edmund is staring into the distance again, a desperate look on his face. At Peter's call he jolts and nearly falls down the hill. When he does reach the bottom, face flushed, panting, he shoves past Peter and onto the ice without a word. Curious, Peter looks in the same direction, but doesn't see anything except two hills, perhaps a few hours' walk away. Shrugging, he hurries after Edmund across the ice.

Lucy is on her knees, having cleared some snow aside, looking down into the lake. Her eyes well up with tears, and Peter catches sight of a fish, frozen just beneath the surface, mouth agape as though trying to breathe.

He considers saying something, but there is nothing to say, so he ducks into the cottage. A moment later, Lucy enters, shutting the door firmly behind her. She presses against Peter's side and he wraps an arm around her, wondering at the warmth that seems to swell not from Mrs. Beaver's cooking fire, but from somewhere deep inside of him.

**/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/**

**Please review!**


	21. Fox's Interlude

**pineapple101: Thanks so much! I'm glad you liked it. **

**Dogluver: Yep, the main plot is approaching, but there's still tons of unlikeable Edmund first, sorry. **

**Narniagirlfan: I'm glad you liked the chapter! Thank you for reviewing.**

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Twenty: Fox's Interlude**_

**Beaver's Dam, 100****th**** Year of the Reign of ****her Imperial Majesty Jadis, Queen of Narnia**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Edmund shivers, bringing up the rear of the party following the ridiculous talking beaver. Peter and Lucy press close to the front, Lucy valiantly attempting to set the pace—one which even he could outstrip hopping, or nearly. Peter lopes at Lucy's heels like some sort of loyal dog, bent on protecting her. His golden head rises above Susan, rises above them all, actually.

High and mighty Peter.

Edmund trails his fingers along the stone wall of the canyon, knocking loose a layer of snow and feeling his fingers burn with cold. There had been a moment, following the robin, where he and Peter had talked. Really talked, as they had not since before he'd gone to the Experiment House. As though what they were saying (discussing the protection of the family) was what needed to truly be said. And that what else needed to be said would come later, easily. Harmlessly. Forgivingly.

His stomach rumbles and Susan glances back, a wry smile on her lips. He glares, attempts to retain a "who, me?" appearance, but he knows she is not fooled. With an almost-habitual glance at Peter, she drops back to walk at Edmund's side.

"Nearly there, at least I think," she says offhandedly.

Edmund grunts. For once, she doesn't scold him about a lack of oratorical prowess and instead continues, "I _am_ sorry about that snowball, Edmund. I didn't think I threw it that hard." Her hands twist together, sleeves bunching up like a muff, and Edmund huffs.

"You didn't."

She looks surprised. "Oh, well, still. Don't let's fight just now. I know you and Peter have been rough lately—"

"Peter's—Peter's—" he can't come up with words to describe what Peter is, in his successes and failures and stresses and how hard he _tries_, but Susan nods like he's made complete sense.

"He's a prat," she says gravely, and Edmund snickers, then sobers, eyes widening with realization.

"Exactly."

She smiles at him, eyes snapping and arms swinging cheerfully. Her hair flies into her face and she tosses it back as she emerges on the hilltop overlooking a frozen pool in which a home seems to be set. Edmund hurries after her, eager for food and warmth.

Like a knife to the gut, the Queen's house rises sharply between the distant hills, blazing in the late light. It looks like a house made of glass, it shines so brightly. Nothing else compares. Susan's smile is like lighting a candle at witching hour in comparison: it has no effect. Edmund thinks of the Queen, her brittle, unearthly beauty, her kindness and generosity, her offers of food and power.

His stomach roils as he thinks about the Turkish Delight. The fur coat seems weightless as he imagines drapes of ermine and velvet robing his shoulders. The beaver shouts about some sort of tea, and the thought of any sort of typical nourishment is suddenly revolting. _How _could he have gotten so distracted? This animal clearly has his own agenda, and it likely doesn't include seeing the Queen—he appears to be on the wrong side—yet here they are, docilely following this beast they know nothing about when he, Edmund, knows just where to go and what to do. He has gotten his family into Narnia, but he's not done yet. He must get them to the Queen, but how? How?

"Coming, Dolly Daydream?"

Edmund is so startled that he staggers and has to readjust his balance. Peter is waiting at the bottom of the hill, head tilted to one side, some sort of snide comment hiding behind his eyes. _No_, Edmund wants to shout,_ I'm not going there, you can't make me. Come this way!_ But Lucy is too tired to go further, and even if he could get Susan to come with him, Peter won't leave Lucy. And really, it is Peter he wants to see the Queen. He wants to be there when he bows and trembles before her, and then before his own brother. Edmund wants that more than anything. His brother's obedience, Peter waiting on his command.

Stomping down the hill, Edmund pushes past Peter and across the ice. He imagines Peter a pace or two behind, waiting for the next order Edmund gives. He lifts his chin, imagining the weight of a crown on his head.

He will not stay long at the beavers'. When the others aren't looking, he'll slip away to the Queen and she can come collect them. After all, he brought them this far. And they will travel so much faster in her sleigh.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Please review!**


	22. Lion's Loss

**Dogluver: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I'm glad I cheered you up. Of course Edmund's a jerk, he's been enchanted by the Witch. He'll get better eventually, though. Isn't it nice to know that from the beginning? **

**Pineapple101: Thanks for reading and reviewing! No worries about the length, I'm just glad you dropped a line. More up shortly. I'm happy you liked it!**

**Narniagirlfan: Thanks for reading and reviewing! No worries about the late review. I promise I'm not sitting by the computer going "Why haven't they said anything yet?!" I just love that you comment each time. **

**Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^**

**First year of college OVER! And now to the real work, the fun work.**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Twenty-One: Lion's Loss**_

**Beaver's Dam, 100****th**** Year of the Reign of ****her Imperial Majesty Jadis, Queen of Narnia**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Peter expects that Mr. Beaver will get right to business and tell them exactly how to get Mr. Tumnus free and then how to get home, but it doesn't work out that way. Mr. Beaver turns to speak to him, whiskers taut and eyes solemn, but is bustled aside by a slightly smaller, scolding she-beaver that Peter knows instinctively is his wife. She beams up at them all, paws clutched together, and Peter flinches at the glow in her gaze.

"So you've come at last!" she gasps, reaching for his hands. Peter touches the pads of her paws, feels her nails lightly scratch his skin as she examines his palms. "At last," she murmurs, and when she looks at him again, she is calmer, watching him in a way that feels familiar. There is a crease between her eyes that he thinks he recognizes from somewhere, as if he has stepped into very big shoes and been found admirable, but wanting.

He opens his mouth in the heavy silence, closes it, then manages, "How do you do, Mrs. Beaver?"

She beams, smiles fondly at him, then releases his hands and chucks Lucy under the chin. "All the better that you are here, dears. Now, come girls, will you help me get a meal on? No, Mr. Beaver, the tea's not quite ready, you will have to wait."

Over Mr. Beaver's loud complaints, she directs Peter and Edmund to stow everyone's coats on the bottom bunk bed built into the wall of the dam, then to laying the table and finding seats for everyone. Peter does not think Edmund will help, but he goes about his work silently, watching everyone and everything with a wariness Peter wishes he could replicate, given they know nothing about their situation. But the Beavers are so kind, and Peter just can't bring himself to believe they're spies, or would harm his family in any way…and they are friends of Mr. Tumnus. So perhaps if Edmund is vigilant for the moment, he doesn't have to be.

Their meal is plentiful, if simple, and the conversation light. Peter gives up attempting to ask about Mr. Tumnus or the White Witch because each time he tries, Mrs. Beaver manages to completely disregard what he's saying in favor of describing what Narnia supposedly looked like in springtime, or the difference between Talking Animals and dumb animals, or wild beautiful parties held when Bacchus came. Susan even cajoles her into telling how she and Mr. Beaver met—a tale that differs wildly depending on the speaker. Lucy's eyes are round and bright, Susan has relaxed, and even Edmund is interested, even if he's pretending not to be.

When Mrs. Beaver has cleared the plates and Mr. Beaver has lit his pipe, the babble stutters and fades. Mr. Beaver puffs for a few moments as Mrs. Beaver returns to the table and watches him expectantly. He sighs, leaning forward, and the rest do as well.

"Now," he says lowly, "we can begin." He glances towards the door, sniffs the air, and says with satisfaction, "It's snowin' again. All the better. We'll have no visitors, and if anyone's been tryin' to follow you, they'll lose the tracks."

There's a breath of important-feeling quiet before Lucy blurts, "Isn't there anything we can do to help Mr. Tumnus?" Peter nods and Susan kneads the tablecloth intently. Edmund says nothing at all.

"Ah, that's bad." Mr. Beaver shakes his head, and Peter's heart sinks. "They'll 'ave taken 'im to 'er House up north, 'n we all know what that means."

"No, _we_ don't," snaps Susan suddenly, and Mr. Beaver grimaces.

"'Course y' don't, I keep forgettin'." He blows a circle of smoke into the air, thinking. "No one knows fer sure what happens in the Witch's castle, but there are rumors…of stones. She makes statues fer 'er home's collection. All full o' statues, they say it is—in the courtyard 'n up the stairs 'n in the hall. Bein's she's turned to stone."

Susan's hand flies to her mouth in horror and Peter feels sick. This Queen of Narnia, or whoever she says she is, is clearly dangerous. She could kill them. And she will kill Mr. Tumnus, who has saved Lucy from this fate once already. It simply isn't right.

"Couldn't we have some stratagem?" he tries, "I mean, couldn't we dress up as something, or watch 'til she was out…there must be some way. We can't just leave him to be—to have that done to him. We just can't!" Susan touches his arm and he realizes he's clenched his fists. Lucy watches between him and Mr. Beaver like a tennis match, but it is Mrs. Beaver that Peter eyes. She is smiling and nodding, though her expression is strangely sad.

"There is hope, dear," she answers while Mr. Beaver takes a conspicuous swig of his tea dregs. She lays a paw on Lucy's arm comfortingly and says, again, pointedly, "Lots of hope!"

Mr. Beaver chokes, swallows hard, and sits up straighter. "Oh, we've got hope; we've got better 'n that!" He motions them even closer, so that they can smell the cinnamon in his breath, and whispers, "_Aslan is on the move_."

Peter isn't sure why, but that one nonsensical sentence causes him to sit up straighter. Next to him, Susan fights a smile, confused, and Lucy looks like she might start dancing. Edmund, who has shifted to sit near the door (perhaps for some air?), looks sick. Peter wonders if the walk in the cold has made him ill. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Who's Aslan?" his younger brother asks, and Peter barely manages to nod in affirmation of his own confusion before Mr. Beaver is positively roaring with laugher. "Who's Aslan? You cheeky li'l bligh'er—"

Mrs. Beaver nudges her husband and he settles, befuddled. "…You don't know, d'you?" he asks in disbelief. "Well, e's only the King of the whole Wood, of Narnia. Not often here, y'understand. Not in my father's time, n' I thought not in mine. But word is 'e's come back. He'll settle the Witch all right, and he'll save Mr. Tumnus."

"Won't the Queen turn him to stone, too?" Edmund presses, and Peter thinks this is an excellent question. Susan is sitting on her hands, and he nearly laughs at how desperately she wants to take notes.

"Lion keep you, Son o' Adam, what a thing t'say! If she can stand on 'er own two feet 'n look 'im in the eye it'll be the most she can do, 'n more'n I expect of 'er." Edmund turns away, sour, and Peter rolls his eyes at his brother's sensitivity.

"There's an old rhyme," Mrs. Beaver says wistfully, pulling up a sewing basket and starting on some mending.

"Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight,

At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more,

When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death,

And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.

"You'll understand when you see him."

"But shall we see him?" Susan interjects doubtfully. She glances around the Beavers' house, as though he might appear from behind the stove.

"Why, Daughter o' Eve, tha's wot I brough' y'here fer. I'm t'lead you to 'im," Mr. Beaver explains proudly.

"Is he…a man?" Lucy cocks her head to the side, seemingly unimpressed. Peter laughs silently, wryly. The adult male figures in their lives have been absent or strange, of late. No wonder she's unwilling to trust.

"Aslan a man!" Mr. Beaver repeats indignantly, "Certainly not! I tell you he's King, son o' the great Emperor-beyond-the-Sea, 'n you don't know who the King of Beasts is? Aslan is the Lion."

"Ooh!" says Susan suddenly, "I'd thought he was a man. Is he—safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a Lion."

Peter tries to picture Aslan, but all he comes up with is a great, wild beast, and he shudders. Surely the Beavers wouldn't lead them into harm. He hopes.

"Safe?" Mrs. Beaver echoes, smiling, "No, he isn't safe, dears. But he's good."

Peter swallows his fear and tries to imagine again. This time he sees a golden glow, and warm eyes, and feels such kindness. "I want to see him," he says, and Mr. Beaver nods approvingly.

"'N so y'shall. You're t'meet 'im tomorrow at the Stone Table. 'E's waitin' fer you."

"He's waiting for us?" Lucy stares.

"You're bloomin' jokin'!" Mr. Beaver explodes, and as Lucy shrinks back, Peter is reminded that even though the Beavers are the most grown up…people? beings? in the room, Peter is in charge of his family. If there's going to be shouting and scolding, Peter will do it, not Mr. Beaver. He's of half a mind to tell their host so when Mr. Beaver shouts out, "They don't even know abou' th' prophecy!"

Susan pales, and Peter knows she's thinking of the books she's read where children get swept off on journeys of destiny informed by a prophecy, and all the trials and near-deaths they must go through, and he doesn't like the sound of this at all. He's beginning to think that Mr. Tumnus can decorate the Witch's bathroom for all he cares; he needs to take his family back home as soon as possible.

Mr. Beaver has been prompted by his wife, though, and Peter can't help but sit spellbound while he recites the prophecy:

"When Adam's flesh and Adam's bone

Sits at Cair Paravel in throne,

The evil time will be over and done."

There's a moment of impressive silence, and Peter feels a chill down his neck and back. Susan says dubiously, "Well, that could be about any old humans, it doesn't have to be us."

"Tha's jus' it, though…haven't been any o' your race 'ere in as long as anyone can remember. There are no humans in Narnia! Until now. So y'see, it has t'be you."

Peter shifts uncomfortably. "But isn't the Witch human?" Perhaps she has a real claim to the throne and this is all a misunderstanding. He'd be angry, too, if someone tried to take his rightful kingdom away from him.

"She'd like us to believe it," snips Mrs. Beaver, "But she's no Daughter of Eve. She comes from your father Adam's first wife, Lilith, who was one of the Jinn—magical folk, and not nice ones at that. On the other side she comes from giants, that's why she's so tall. Not a drop of real, human blood in her."

"That's why she's bad all through," Mr. Beaver takes up the story, "There's those that looks a bit like humans, 'n they can be good or bad."

"Like the Dwarves," Mrs. Beaver supplies.

"Yes, like 'em," Mr. Beaver agrees after a moment's hesitation, "But then there's those that's goin' t'be human 'n isn't yet, or used t'be human 'n isn't now, or ought t'be human 'n isn't…them's you watch, 'n y'run. 'N if you can't run, y'fight 'n y'don't give in til they're dead. That's why the Witch's always on the lookout fer any humans in Narnia. If she knew there were four of you, she'd be more dangerous still—"

"What's that to do with it?" Susan interrupts, voice high and trembly, and Peter knows she's frightened, wants to leave but just can't move, and he feels the same way. The panic is running fast through his veins.

"There's one more prophecy," Mr. Beaver continues, and Susan closes her eyes in despair. "It's more a rumor, really, but no denyin' it's got 'er on edge. Down at Cair Paravel, the castle on the sea, which ought t'be the capital of Narnia, there's four thrones. It's said that when two Sons of Adam 'n two Daughters of Eve sit in the four thrones, it'll be th'end of not only the Witch's reign, but o' her life. Don't y'see: Aslan's return, Tumnus's arrest, th'secret police…it's all because of you!"

"You're blaming us?" Susan demands, and her anger frees Peter a bit from whatever fear and amazement has been holding him still. He begins to shift from his seat.

"Not blaming you, dear! Thanking you," Mrs. Beaver gently answers. "You'll defeat the White Witch and restore peace to Narnia." She and Mr. Beaver hold paws, beaming.

Peter glances at Susan and sees the same almost-decision mirrored in her eyes. "And you think we're 'the ones'?" he clarifies, because maybe he's heard wrong and there's a way out of this. Another four siblings sitting in a badger den somewhere being told the same thing and agreeing to be the kings and queens. What are the odds that they're the only humans in this place in the wardrobe, anyway?

"Well, you'd better be, because Aslan's musterin' a whole army fer you!"

"Our army!" Lucy exclaims, and all but leaps into Peter's lap. This is wrong, he thinks, holding her close, all wrong. England's at war. They're hiding from it at the Professor's, not fighting someone else's battles.

"Mum sent us away so we wouldn't get caught up in a war," Susan breathes, and Peter makes his decision. They're just children, this isn't their responsibility. The Beavers have been so welcoming, though, so he tries to break it to them gently.

"I think you've made a mistake," he tries, "but we're not heroes—"

Susan scoffs, "We're from Finchley!" The Beavers stare, uncomprehending. Peter fumbles for words, but Susan doesn't bother. She stands, and Lucy scrambles up beside her. "Thank you for your hospitality," she starts sharply, though her face softens as she looks at their hosts. Then, she stiffens, resolute. "But we really have to go."

Mr. Beaver splutters, and Lucy sits down slowly, heavy with realization. "We have to help Mr. Tumnus," she reminds Peter, but he's standing now, and for once he won't be swayed by the plea in her eyes.

"It's out of our hands," he tells her, and she turns away in a surprising show of anger. "I'm sorry," he says to Lucy, to the horrified Beavers, and he means it, too, "but it's time the four of us were getting home. Everyone grab your coats—Ed?" He turns, scanning the shadows by the door. Edmund's not there. "Ed?" This has to be some sort of joke. He faces Susan, fighting down fury. If Edmund's hiding just outside the door and laughing at them, or decided this was a fine time to go off exploring—"I'm going to kill him," he starts, but Mr. Beaver cuts him off, a tired, dangerous look in his eyes.

"Y'may not 'ave to," he says slowly, "Has Edmund been t'Narnia before?"

Lucy tearfully confirms that yes, he has, Mr. Beaver looks grim, and the bottom drops out of Peter's world.

"Git your coats," Mr. Beaver directs sharply, "we're goin' after 'im."

Peter is already shrugging into his, then turning to help Lucy with the fastenings in the fur. He hopes the Beavers aren't offended by their winter wear, then decides that this really isn't what he should be worried about. "But where has he gone?" he calls, chasing after Mr. Beaver as they burst out of the house and into the falling snow.

Mr. Beaver doesn't turn as he shouts over his shoulder, "'E's gone to _'er_, t'th'White Witch. 'E's betrayed us all."

"Oh, surely—he can't have!" Susan protests, pulling Lucy along.

Mr. Beaver stops short, faces them. They trip into a line, panting. "Can't 'e?" he asks, looking hard at them. "Tell me 'e can't n' I'll believe you. I want t'believe you."

Peter tries, by God he tries, "Edmund—" he begins, but can't finish. He starts running again. Beast or no, Edmund's his brother. He's not some spy or plaything for the Witch. He's only a kid. He didn't know. He can't have known. Mr. Beaver overtakes him and leads the way. Peter wishes the girls had stayed behind because they're so slow, but then he thinks of trying to rescue Edmund without them and is infinitely grateful they're here. "Hurry!" he yells to them, and then, hopefully, "Ed!"

There's no reply.

The run is longer than expected and they take it quite fast, pushing through the slow and wishing they had left their coats behind. Peter loses track of time and simply follows Mr. Beaver into the dark. He's glad no one tries to stop them. He doesn't know what he would have done, but he knows how to use his fists. Nothing is going to stop him from catching up to Edmund. And when he catches him, he is marching them straight back home. This place is no good for any of them, particularly not nasty little brothers who don't know an evil Witch when they meet one. Honestly.

Peter crests a hill and stops short, staring. The others catch up and for a moment no one speaks, their harsh breaths clouding the air. They have reached the edge of a frozen lake, and rising from the center is an icy blue castle. It glows even though the night is cloudy. Sharp, stabbing spires pierce the air. The main entrance is open, and Peter catches sight of a small, dark figure walking up the path in front of the gates.

"Edmund!" Lucy screams, only to be shushed by Mr. Beaver.

"They'll hear you!"

The panic that has slowly been building inside of Peter since they were in the Beavers' house boils over into blinding terror. He had never thought—never considered—Mr. Beaver drags him back before he gets more than a few paces. "Get off me!" he snarls, because it's Edmund, doesn't he see that's it's Edmund and he's got to get him back—

"You're playin' right into 'er 'ands!" Mr. Beaver shouts, "Four new statues fer 'er collection 'n she'd be queen forever!"

"We can't just leave him!" Susan cries, and Peter makes another break for it, only to be dragged back not by Mr. Beaver, but by Lucy. He stills, finds Edmund, far away across the lake, and watches his brother walk inside the castle. The great doors close on him, and Peter dimly wonders if this is how Mum felt as they sped away in the train. No, this is different, because Mum knows they'll come back when the war is over. But Edmund…Edmund they may never see alive.

"This is all your fault," Susan snaps, low and cruel. Peter recoils, turns on her.

"My fault?" he repeats, trying for indignant and not sure he gets there.

"None of this would have happened if you have just listened to me in the first place!" she shouts, and Lucy gapes, because Susan never shouts—it's unladylike. But Susan's no lady now. She's scared and angry and it's all Peter's fault, it really is. He should have listened, but he can't admit that now. He's in charge. _He's in charge._

"So you knew this would happen?" he asks sarcastically.

Susan laughs bitterly. "I didn't know what would happen. Which is why we should have left while we still could—!"

"Stop it!" Lucy shrieks, and Peter looks at her numbly. Susan's right. They can't leave now. Can't leave until they get Edmund back. How can they return to England without him? And if Edmund—if they can't get him back, Peter's not leaving. He can't face Mum and tell her he lost one of her children in a magical wardrobe, turned to stone by a Witch. And so he'll tell her nothing at all.

As if reading his mind, Mr. Beaver says, "She'll keep 'im alive fer bait. Fer now."

"So what do we do?" Lucy begs, and Peter pulls her close. Susan takes his hand. Helplessly, hating himself for it, he looks to Mr. Beaver.

"Only Aslan can help your brother now."

Peter closes his eyes and reaches into himself, looking for something, anything to hold on to.

"_Watch out for Eddy, will you? He's going to have a rough time."_

"_I don't need you. I can look after myself."_

"_Peter, can I come back to Hardsworth's? I'll be good, I promise!"_

_"Why would you want to be evil anyway?"_

_"__It's more interesting than being good."_

_"D'you think Dad's all right?"_

"_Why can't you just do as you're told?"_

_"Promise me you'll look after the others."_

_"You—don't—anything—not—stop it—Peter—monster—"_

"_Coming, Dolly Daydream?"_

Edmund. Spiralling ever-downward. His brother. His.

Opening his eyes, Peter clutches onto Susan and Lucy, all he has left.

"Take us to him."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Please review!**


	23. Fox's Fortune

**Dogluver: Thanks so much for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you liked it.**

**Pineapple101: Thank you for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it **

**Narniagirlfan: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I appreciate your comments. And thank you for the warm welcome back!**

**Malchikgeychan: Thanks for following and favoriting! Feel free to message me with your comments, questions, likes, dislikes, or suggestions for further chapters and stories. I love hearing from you!**

**Hi, I'm back! Thanks for being so patient. I have a 9-5 internship, so I don't always have time to write. Anyway, I've decided that the language of Charn, and of the White Witch, is Icelandic. I'll have a word glossary at the bottom of each chapter that words are used in. I apologize if the translation's ever off, I am using Google Translate :/**

Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_**The Lion and the Fox**_

_**Chapter Twenty-Two: Fox's Fortune**_

**Kastalinn Vetur Konungur, 100****th**** Year of the Reign of ****Her Imperial Majesty Jadis, Queen of Narnia**

"_Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, __The Prince__ chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"_

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Listening to the beavers talk—the edges of hysteria creep in when he tries to understand how, exactly, beavers can speak—Edmund feels steadily more ill. The animals describe the Queen all wrong. She's beautiful, he knows, far more so than anyone he's ever seen or expects to see (Everyone's always saying Susan's going to be a "great beauty," but with her nose? Ha!), and the Queen is kind and generous to people she doesn't even know. So her squat little chauffeur tried to kill him. It's understandable; he was protecting royalty.

If there are as few humans as the beavers say (though he doesn't think they're very reliable, since they have the Queen wrong already), no wonder she wants to make Edmund the Prince and meet all of his siblings. It must be terribly lonely in her house with only uncivilized animals to talk to and no children of her own. The Queen seems just the sort to want to be a mother. Edmund wonders why she doesn't marry into another country, but thinks maybe she doesn't want to give up her throne. Or maybe, he realizes suddenly, maybe she wants to handpick her successor, and was just waiting for someone like Edmund to come along. This strikes him as incredibly smart of her.

As they talk of Aslan, Edmund fights the urge to run from the beavers' house entirely. This Aslan sounds like a very real threat to Her Majesty, and one she doesn't know about. While he doubts the lion's as strong as the beavers think, he bets the Queen will be pleased if he brings her the news, as well as his siblings. Looking at the others, though, he knows it won't be so easy. They're caught up in the rebels' story, believing the lies that the Queen's a usurper, an evil witch, and the like. Prophecies are a bunch of hogwash, in his opinion. The only way Peter, Susan, and Lucy are going to get to be royalty is if they are particularly nice to him once he's Crown Prince.

The one his siblings are calling "Mr. Beaver" finishes reciting the second poem, and Edmund makes his decision. He can't get his siblings to the Queen—Peter and Lucy will want to stay and help the rebellion, and Susan will want to go home. None of them will even consider trekking through the snow and trusting Edmund. Leaning slowly, deliberately against the door in the stillness after the prophecy, Edmund sidles outside and onto the ice. As Peter begins to speak, he hurriedly shuts the door and runs across the pond, headed for the woods. He doesn't check his bearings—he doesn't need to. The soaring castle is etched in his mind.

The trip is rough. Edmund left his coat behind, and though the snow has tapered off again, the fallen powder rises up over his socks with each step. His legs are soaked. He shivers, tucking his arms in tightly and moving as quickly as he can without tumbling headfirst into a snow bank. Occasionally, Edmund glances around at the black, bare trees or the grayish firs with their spiny needles and struggles not to think about what might be lurking in their branches. Remembering what Lucy had said earlier, he whispers, "I'm on your side."

There is no response. He half-expected one. Speaking calms him, and the statement becomes a mantra. Ten steps, "I'm on your side." Ten steps, "I'm on your side."

When he stumbles from the tree line onto the bank of the frozen lake, the words falter on his numbed lips. Moonlight glitters on the icy castle, casting a blue reflection across the ice. Edmund's shadow stretches behind him, back towards the beavers and his siblings. He glares at the traitorous shape, his attention shifting into the silent trees. Distantly, echoing in the otherwise-still air, he thinks he hears Peter's shout. His stomach dips unpleasantly. If he hesitates, he'll be caught, scolded, and dragged to the stone table—why anyone would have some random table lying about he has no idea—and no one will listen to him. To be so close and to risk that Peter won't want to explore, to see the castle and meet the Queen…it's too great. Whirling about, Edmund staggers into an unsteady run across the lake. He has to see her again, now.

As he slides haphazardly up to the towering metal gates of the castle, they swing wide. He slows, eyeing the metalwork. Curled about the bars are creatures, wild, and unrecognizable animals. Some he knows, like the wolves, and what he believes to be a minotaur. Others he can't identify: beasts with rolling eyes, two heads, or jagged wings unfurling, beating against the bars. Some of the animals are lying down, staring out at him as though they are the true guards of the Queen's home. Other beasts are engaged in horrible acts, fighting and dying and touching in all manner of ways, mouths gaping in screams of victory, fear, ecstasy. Edmund shudders, feeling their eyes on him as he creeps towards the gate. Is this the Queen's spell? Perhaps the animals attack if she does not want visitors.

Reaching the threshold, with the gates rising up on either side, he stops dead, unable to go any further. Beyond the gates is a snowy courtyard filled with creatures similar to the ones on the gates, only these are life-size and are all stationary, watching him. She keeps these beasts as pets, roaming free? Edmund hopes the Queen has them well trained.

Directly before him stands a lion, head turned towards him, teeth bared, eyes wide. If he was closer, Edmund knows, he'd be able to hear its growl of warning. The beast is gray in the dim light, covered in a heavy coat of snow. He frowns. What sort of lion lets himself get snowed on? His eyes widen. Maybe one who is too hungry to care about anything except his next meal?

From behind him comes a piercing scream, "Edmund!" He jumps, half-turning towards the sound.

The lion does not.

Closing his eyes, Edmund silently thanks Lucy and steps into the courtyard. The gates swing shut behind him and he scoffs. The Queen is going to drive the others all the way back to the beavers' house. How inconvenient. Perhaps she'll send someone to get them and he can stay with her, eating Turkish Delight and starting lessons on how to run a kingdom. Maybe he'll suggest she move her stone sculptures (they're not beings turned to stone, honestly, how gullible is Lucy?) to the area outside the castle, as opposed to…cluttering the courtyard so that guests have…difficulty getting through. Satisfied, Edmund stands directly in front of the lion and pulls a pencil stub from his pocket. With careful ease born of hours' practice in class, he sketches a pair of round spectacles and a curled mustache onto the lion's face. The unblinking fury twisting the beast's expression reminds him nastily of Professor Fitzhugh, and he quickly moves on.

Passing a half man-half goat thing, he wonders vaguely if this is a faun statue, merely a stone representation of Lucy's traitor friend, then catches sight of a grand staircase of stone and ice and forgets about it entirely.

At the top of the stairs lies a stone wolf as if asleep—a final statue guard. Edmund boldly climbs to the landing, finding the stairs so thoroughly scratched that he has no trouble placing his feet securely. He thinks of calling out and announcing his presence, then decides the Queen will be more fun to surprise. Lifting a leg to step over the wolf statue, he yelps in terror as suddenly, fluidly, it moves. Real wolf! Real. Wolf.

Tumbling onto his back, shoulder blades slamming against the cold floor, Edmund curls in on himself, or tries to, in a way that is far too familiar. It reminds him of an Edmund he doesn't particularly like. As the wolf growls, "Be still stranger, or you'll never move again. Who are you?" he musters as much bravado as he can, channeling Reggie O'Toole in fine style.

"I'm Edmund, I met the Queen in the woods! She told me to come back here."

The wolf's eyes narrow and his growls turn so fierce that Edmund can see the fur on his throat rippling, Edmund reaches for whatever may help, and gasps out, "I'm a son of Adam!"

The wolf appraises him for a moment before pushing off and standing aside, claws scrabbling the stone. "My apologies, fortunate favorite of the Queen." Brushing past him, in a voice like sandpaper on wood, the wolf adds, "Or else, not so fortunate." A flick of his ears has Edmund following after, heart thundering in his chest. He's not afraid of the big bad wolf. He's not.

Edmund follows the wolf up a second flight of stairs and steps through a pair of intricate glass doors that seem oddly out of place in the Queen's house of ice and stone. They shine with a softer, bluer light, and as he passes under their arch Edmund stands straighter, feels stronger. For the briefest instant, he walks with confidence: head up, eyes bright, bearing a startling resemblance to his older brother (which he'd deny, of course, were he to know).

Then Edmund enters the throne room and everything falls away. The ice walls rise up into dark, ice ceilings; frozen pillars form paths throughout the room. It is cold, colder here than any other part of the winter that he's experienced, including outside. He knows immediately that the Queen has entrenched much of her power here; that this room never warms.

The wolf orders him to wait and lopes off down one of the side paths created by the towering columns. Edmund obeys, hands stuffed in his damp pockets. He wonders if the Queen has some dry things for him to change into—something velvet, covered in jewels and brocade.

Meandering over to a pillar, he presses timid fingers against the sleek ice, looking closely. Beneath the thick layer of frozen water is the actual column, made of some sort of white stone. It may be marble. Carved into the stone are twining vines bursting with blooms and birds. He follows the columns upwards in wonder. The ceiling must be some sort of beautiful mural, if only he could see it. Scuffing his feet over the floor, he uncovers a flash of bright tile—a mosaic. He contemplates why the Queen would cover up such artistry, then decides it was probably seditious material and if Her Majesty doesn't like it, he doesn't, either. Quickly, Edmund kicks snow back over the tiles and looks around for something else to explore.

High on a dais at the far end of the throne room sits the throne itself, in magnificent, empty splendor. The seat itself is made of some sort of crystal, cut thin enough to be transparent, and shot through with geometric lines of black stone. The style is more modern than the Queen's taste, yet appears to be older than the current incarnation of the castle. Her Majesty has covered the throne in plush white furs so that the chair beneath is almost indistinguishable. Still, the throne is entrancing. Edmund pictures himself seated in it, with Peter, Susan, and Lucy cowering below him. The temptation is too great. He eagerly mounts the stairs and, with great ceremony, lowers himself into the throne.

His feet dangle above the ground and the chair is too wide to hold him comfortably. The furs are slippery and he struggles to grip the armrests tight enough so that he doesn't slide off. He smiles, giddy, hearing the cheers of adoring subjects, seeing the plates of Turkish Delight stacked around him, the Queen off to one side watching approvingly.

And when he finishes a long day, she'll wait for him in her private chambers. He'll go to her and she'll open her arms wide. He'll run to her, bury himself in her embrace, and she'll stroke his hair and croon, "Hard day, my dear? You did so well. Your people are so happy. You mustn't get discouraged." Peter will come in with his head bent, carrying food and drink. He'll bow low and remain so until Edmund tells him to get up and go away.

"Like it?"

Alarmed, Edmund loses his grip and slides out of the throne, just barely managing to keep his footing. Her voice is quietly sharp and he straightens, beaming up at her. "Yes, Your Majesty!" The chauffeur glares at him from just behind the train of her fur robe. The wolf is nowhere to be seen. Edmund bows clumsily and is rewarded with a meager softening of the Queen's expression.

"I thought you might." He hastily steps aside as she sweeps up to take her seat, filling the space so much more completely than he could hope to. Edmund notes the jut of her chin, the wide spread of her pale shoulders, the sceptre clutched in her hand. He memorizes the pose for later use.

He knows better than to talk first, so Edmund waits while she observes him, trying to suppress his shivers and avoid thoughts of Turkish Delight. When she speaks at last, her tone is unchanged, eyes like cloudy ice. "Tell me, Edmund," she says, as though asking about tomorrow's weather (which, in current Narnia, is a silly question), "are your sisters deaf?"

He frowns. "No." Forgets to add, "Your Majesty" because the question is just so strange. Shouldn't she be asking if he's chilled? If he'd like to rest a while before sharing his news? That's how it works in Susan's books—not that he makes it a habit to read her books—not that he's ever read her books at all.

"And your brother," the Queen draws him back with one slightly raised eyebrow. He vows to learn to copy that look as soon as possible. "Is he…unintelligent?"

Edmund thinks back on empty promises and shattered glances. He smirks against the sting. "Well, I think so. But Mum says—"

"Then _how dare you come alone_?" He reels back from the force of her fury, sudden as a flash storm and stinging like hail.

"I tried!" he pleads, uncertain how he came to be here, cringing before a distorted woman, face twisted into something so terrible and ugly that a tiny part of his mind squeaks, _not human_, before falling silent in terror.

She talks over him, as if to a jury at his trial, "I ask so little…"

"They wouldn't listen!"

"Couldn't even do that…"

_Only a little, really to trick his entire family and draw them into a trap—no, not a trap, just a meeting. A coronation. A success._

_A trap._

"I did bring them halfway!" he cries, silencing the flood of pressing fear and need to please. The force recedes, he gasps as if struggling not to be buried alive in snow—or magic. "They're at the dam, with the beavers!"

The chauffeur twitches, looking grudgingly impressed. Edmund waits for the Queen.

She regards him with disdain. As Reggie looked at him when he was pinned to the toilet floor. As he was looked at until he joined up with The Gang, became one of them. As he has not been looked at since, until now. But hasn't he joined? Hasn't he done it properly, like before?

"Well. I suppose you're not a total loss then, are you?" She has risen, towers over him and gives off such waves of animosity and scorn without any change in her stance. What Edmund senses most from her is disappointment, burning cold and lodged tightly in his breastbone.

"Maugrim," the Queen says, and Edmund frowns. The word is familiar, but he can't place it.

The wolf steps out of the shadows, yellow eyes trained on Edmund. He feels all the breath leave his body. The Queen smiles delicately and murmurs, "You know what to do." Maugrim glances at her sidelong, pads to the edge of the dais, throws back his head, and howls.

Edmund wants to cover his ears, but he can't manage to move. Maugrim's howl echoes around the hall, and Edmund realizes the wolf is not the only one making noise. Wolves are stalking out of the darkness, hackles raised, barks and yips displaying fierce teeth. They are bigger than the wolves Edmund knows from zoo trips and look meaner, too.

He puts it together very suddenly: Maugrim, Captain of the Secret Police.

The wolves are the police.

Thinking on what they have done to Mr. Tumnus's home, he feels a bit ill, imagines Mrs. Beaver's sewing machine crushed underpaw, Mr. Beaver's hard work on the dam torn to bits. And what would the wolves do to his family?

Yapping and snarling, the wolves streak through the hall and out of the castle, their calls ricocheting in the courtyard. Edmund considers asking what happened to protection of citizens by the police, but realizes the beavers are probably not considered citizens by Her Majesty—no rights to speak of. When he's king, there will be proper laws written down, that's for certain.

Which brings him back to a more pressing matter. If he was less hungry, he'd think clearer, he knows. He musters up a smile. "I was wondering, couldn't I have some of that Turkish Delight now?"

His stomach twists as the Queen's countenance seems to fragment and repair itself before he can blink. Something has changed. His toes curl in anticipation of flight, though he knows there's nowhere for him to go. Why did he think this was a good idea?

The Queen turns to the chauffeur—all right, he's admitted it before, the dwarf, no, Dwarf—commenting, "Our guest is hungry."

The Dwarf, who has been fiddling disinterestedly with his beard, looks up and grins. He advances on Edmund, who tries to twist aside. Too slow, and Edmund stills when the knife presses into his back. Panicking, he wheels towards the Queen.

"I wanted to see you!" he half-sobs, frantic.

She looks straight through him.

The Dwarf jabs the blade harder, tearing his jumper. Edmund gasps, arching his back. The knife remains firmly pressed to his spine.

"This way," the Dwarf orders, and shunts him down the stairs and out a side door into a dark, damp corridor. Edmund glances back, desperate for a last glimpse of Her.

She is not there.

He doesn't think she ever was.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Please read and review!**

**(Kastalinn) Vetur Konungur – (Castle) Winter's Reign. The name of the castle is Vetur Konungur, the Kastalinn denotes the style of building. Whee!**


End file.
